“Dear Lord, please take care of him, I beg you!” I prayed as I rushed to Emory Hospital. I had been at home waiting for a furniture delivery while my husband took our vacation rental car back. He loved to exercise, so he turned down my offer of a ride, saying he would walk home. My world fell apart about an hour later when the phone rang with the news that he was in the emergency room.
At the hospital, a social worker met me at the door — and I expected him to lead me to Jef, who would eagerly fill me in on his adventure. Instead, I ended up in the family-consultation room where a young chaplain sat waiting for me.
Frightened, I asked the chaplain how my husband was, but he said the doctor hadn’t come in yet with a report — and at that point, I took his hand and didn’t let go.
The whole situation seemed like a horrible, slow-motion nightmare, especially when a parking attendant walked in and said, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I broke down into hysterics. What loss? Was Jef gone?
The man quickly returned to apologize: “I meant to say I was lost and couldn’t find the room.” The air suddenly seemed frigid, and when I began shivering, the chaplain gave me warm blankets to wrap myself in.
Then the doctor arrived with the news that shattered my heart into a million pieces. The love of my life, my honey bear, my sweet fuzzy guy, the man I called Bubba, the man I had spent 33 years with, the man I loved with all my being, was gone.
A doctor driving along Chelsea Circle had seen him lying in a yard, dialed 911 and began doing CPR immediately. Then the EMTs and Emory doctors continued trying to revive him — but to no avail.
“Is there someone you want us to call?” a social worker asked.
“Father Lopez,” I said immediately, and then also alerted my sister, my cousin and two friends with the horrible news: “We lost our Jef!”
In what seemed like seconds, Father Lopez rushed into the room — tears pouring down his face — and gave me a giant hug. Together we went to see my beloved, lying there so serenely, looking just like I’ve seen him thousands of times when he was asleep beside me.
After we prayed over him, I had time alone with my sweet husband, during which I drank in every detail of his face — the big eyebrows, the crooked nose, the fuzzy, graying head of hair that I loved to stroke. “Oh, Bubba, no, my love, my life, no.”
How often had we talked about a future date when a tragedy might part us? I usually initiated the conversation because I was terrified of losing him even though he was younger.
“You’re becoming an old codger,” I’d tease him when I noticed more gray hair. “That’s my goal,” he’d chuckle.
I had asked him once about his purpose in life, expecting him to mention his artwork or his writing. Instead, he looked at me and said in all seriousness, “I think God put me on this earth to take care of you.”
How well he did that! He would prod me to exercise, make me gourmet meals and homemade wine, keep the house from falling apart — and most of all, encourage me when I fell into darkness.
I still wait for my fuzzy guy to walk in the door — and still expect someone to shake me and say it’s all a nightmare. I keep collecting funny stories to share with him, and then realize he’s not here to enjoy them.
He started each day by kissing the hefty crucifix he wore around his neck, and ended each night the same way. Now I follow in his footsteps, cherishing the same cross, and praying for help.
It has now been a little over a week, and the verse playing in my head is “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
Goodbye, my sweetheart, my darling love, my soul mate — until we meet again in the land beyond time where there is no crying and no sighing, and where every tear will be wiped away.
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