“There is no adequate description for the weight of grief of a loss so profound that words disappear” Adria R . Walker
I held his hand. I caressed his cheeks. I washed his body. He did the same for me only a couple weeks before when I could barely care for myself. He showed up at my hospital door January 10th and never left my side. Until.
I felt so honored to be able to sit with him and whisper in his ears as I waited for him to come back to this side. I imagined he was somewhere in between, wanting to laugh and joke with me while yearning for his own mother (who passed away the year before).
So I sat with him daily. I learned quickly how to fold my walker, get in an uber and roll down the hospital hall everyday to be by his side until he went to the other side. Up until this time, he did all of this for me. He drove and accompanied me to all my appointments, brought me food, sat by my side as I faded in and out, made sure I stayed on my supplements. He showed me what true love felt like.
He took one last effortless breath on May 7th, almost sounded and felt like a sigh of relief.
And just like that he transitioned. That was it.
I wiped and caressed his face one last time as they disconnected all the wires that kept him barely here with me.
Grateful he allowed me to witness his transition to eternity. The next day I saw two cardinals playfully flying in my back yard. I know it was Chris and his Mom.
Rest well. Took me forever to write this. Just couldn’t get the words together.
Chris Askew 7/9/67 – 5/7/19.