Lost

On walking alone

I lost my husband last week. He was here when I left for Spain, to walk a portion of the Camino De Santiago. A pilgrimage. He was here. He carried my suitcase down the stairs and into the garage. Put it in the trunk of his silver Audi sedan. Like he always did for me when I went away. Like he always did.

He got behind the wheel, buckled his seatbelt, waited for me to buckle mine, and backed slowly, carefully, out the garage and down the driveway. He drove me to the Marin Airporter. We didn’t say much. These days, car rides aren’t the way they used to be. My husband didn’t have fluidity with language anymore. Words were harder to string together. Thoughts sometimes became garbled. We often drove in silence.

“I’m nervous,” I said. “What if it’s too hard? What if I can’t keep up the pace?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “You’ll be fine.”

He always said that. When I fretted about our daughters: “She’ll be fine.” When I fretted about finances: “We’ll be fine.” After my cancer diagnosis, when I fell into his arms and sobbed big, gloppy, wet tears that soaked his shirt, the one I bought in Santa Fe, with the horses on the back, that used to fit and now looked like a tunic on his slight, bent frame. “Everything will be fine,” he said. He always said that.

He pulled into the Airporter driveway and, suddenly unsure, asked me where he should let me out. He’s been more and more unsure. The plaques have shrunk his brain, the parts that help him solve problems and remember the way to places. “Just pull around the building and drop me in the back,” I said with studied casualness.

He stopped the car, turned it off, opened the trunk and took out my suitcase. He turned to me. “Have a great time.”

“Come here,” I said. “Give me a hug.” We embraced. Like two bodies melding into one, not in passion so much as in familiarity. We know every inch of each other. We have held each other through more sorrows and joys and sicknesses and reconciliations than I can count.

Just another hug like that. And a kiss on the cheek.

“Remember, honey, I have my phone. You can call me any time if you need a little help. Really. Call me anytime if things get hard.”

“I’ll be fine.”

And then he drove off. He was fine. I felt better, less conflicted, more relaxed, as I settled into my seat on the big bus.

He was here when I texted “Boarding!”

“Have a great trip and a magnificent experience!” He punctuated the message with a heart emoji, the one with a yellow sparkle in the right ventricle.

He was here when I texted to say I’d arrived in Madrid. He was here when our daughter sent me pictures of him at a restaurant about to dig in to a big plate of fish and chips at a new Irish pub in town. “He ate 3/4 of his plate,” she wrote. So satisfied. He looked patient.

He was here when my daughter asked me if she could take Bonnie to the groomer, give her a haircut. “Dad was just so concerned you’d be inconsolable if she had a haircut,” she said.

He was here when I sent our daughter pictures from the Camino—mostly fields and cows and dogs. And a witch. “Dad is surprised by how green it is,” she said, and sent me a selfie with her dad by her side on the sofa, where he always sat, offering me a wry little grin.

He was here when I sent more pictures after Day Two, a long fifteen mile day. “How are you?” I asked.

“Doing just fine,” he said. He always said that. “You look great! Hope all continues to go well and no major rain storms.” He didn’t want me to get wet.

He was here the day after that. “Three days completed. Three more to go,” I said. “Doing just fine!” he exclaimed, “Hope you’re having a wonderful time and a truly memorable adventure.”

He was here a few days later when I sent many more pictures and said I’d landed in Palermo with my friend. He gave me a thumbs up emoji. “Thanks for the photos! Looks like you’re having fun,” he said. I was. I was having fun.

He was here that next day too, when I asked how his visit with dear friends was going. I had asked them to come for a weekend while I was away. They didn’t hesitate.

“A somewhat low key, relaxing, and very enjoyable visit!” he said. He was fine.

He was here the day the friends left, “Yea Peter Magyar & Hungary! No more Orban, for now anyway.” He celebrated with his Hungarian wife.

He was here the next day too, when I asked him what was going on with the cable company (they’d texted me about an appointment). “Got a new cable and wires. Trying to install per instructions. Will get back to you later.” That broke my heart a little. These days, it’s hard for him to follow written instructions. I offered to help.

He was here a few hour later, when he said, “the TV is back online with full throated sound.”

And then he said “Hope you’re well and getting some rest. I miss you.”

“I miss you too. I’ll be back Friday night. Xoxo”

And then I lost him. He was here, but gone. My friend said he looked peaceful in our bed. But cool to the touch. Gone.

She arranged an earlier flight home for me. I traveled for 20+ hours through the sky, texting my husband.

“How can I do this?”

“I did not hug you enough. I wish I was with you. God, how I hope you are somewhere beautiful.”

“You deserved so much more out of life. I am glad for the joy we had though.”

I lost him. He wasn’t here when I got home.

Our daughters are here. Bonnie is here. She doesn’t let me out of her sight.

I keep looking for my husband. In the pockets of his jeans, where his shiny red pocket knife is, the one he carried everywhere, even into hospitals. And the large silver coin I know nothing about. He carried it in his pocket. For luck? Security? To carry someone with him? I can’t ask him. Because I lost him.

He’s not here as I type this from our bed at 4:30AM. Because I am awake. Because I need to tell this story. Because I put pillows under the covers on his side of the bed so I can try to pretend he is here. Like I used to when he travelled for work.

All I have is the ring he wore on his left hand. A gold band with a tiny square sapphire. The one that matches mine, except mine has a tiny square diamond. I have it on a chain around my neck. I push my finger through it over and over.

I keep looking for my lost husband. “I’ll be right by your side,” he said when I was diagnosed. “‘til death do us part,” he said on August 11, 1990.

But now he is gone. Lost. I cannot find him anywhere.