“I Thought We Had More Time”

My husband, Ace, and I met in a swimming pool. He enjoyed telling people that we knew each other for six months before he ever saw me with my clothes on! We became swimming pool friends and knew each other for six years when we married. Both of us had been married previously and widowed.

Our decision to marry necessitated new living arrangements. We began searching for our special place. Ace suggested we consider a retirement community. So we looked, liked what we saw, and the decision to “retire” was made.

Within a month, we had both sold our homes, moved and married. After unpacking the many boxes, we jumped into our new community and its many activities. Most of the time, we joined the same committees. At ages 61 (me) and 70 (he), we were just delighted to be together.

And enjoy life we did. We traveled to visit friends and relatives. We became active in our church and volunteered in community organizations.

About three and a half years ago, we both had an appointment with our dermatologist. What we thought was a routine visit, turned out to be anything but. Ace was diagnosed with melanoma. He optimistically referred to the situation as a “bump in the road.” After two surgeries to remove lymph glands, we resumed our regular lifestyle.

Approximately eight months later, it was discovered that he had cancer cells in his lung. That required another surgery. The follow-up was his enrollment in a special cancer treatment program.

His treatments began in June. When cancer was found in his brain in July necessitating radiation, Ace said, “I thought we had more time.”
My sweet wonderful Ace died August 20, 2004. Now instead of my soul mate, my companion was grief.

Having lost my first husband, I was no stranger to the process. But this was different. Then, I had a career. My job took me in new directions. I was more mobile. Now, I use a walker and scooter to get around, and let’s face it, getting old is not for sissies.

Ace had journaled for 30 years. I read every one of them after he died. A neighbor suggested I might find it helpful to write. So, because I could not find an excuse not to, I began to journal. The first entry was awkward, stilted even, unsatisfying. As I thought about it, it occurred to me that Ace and I had never, ever run out of things to talk about in our almost eight years of marriage, so why not write to him? So I did. For the next eighteen months, I wrote daily letters to Ace. Somewhere along the way, I had the idea to close each entry with something I was grateful for. I was healing. An unexpected side benefit was rereading the journals, which enabled me to see how I was progressing.

At the same time, I availed myself of the counseling sessions offered by the hospice staff. Because those sessions were very helpful, I continued with a counselor closer to home.
Two small groups, as well as many individuals in my church, were instrumental in caring for me. The residents in our retirement community made sure I had dining companions, sent cards, called me and continue to do so today.

Ace’s family kept in touch, and, at the same time, respected my privacy. They understood when I needed to be alone.

Almost three years later, I have made much progress. I give thanks for caring friends and family, a wonderful church family, and seven plus years of memories with an extraordinary man. My journey continues.