The Days After (The Day Les Didn’t Show Up)

Barb, three years ago, at about this time, we were rejoicing at your remarkable, miraculous recovery. We thought we were going to lose you after you had your cardiac arrest. Emergency responders gave you CPR for 15-20 minutes before your heart started beating on its own again, at which time you were airlifted from Austin to Rochester. You were unresponsive and on life support when your family agreed to a last-resort treatment of having your body chilled to give you more time to recover. After about 24 hours, the physicians at Mayo brought your temperature back up, and against all odds, you responded. We had all gathered as a family, preparing to say goodbye, when you rallied. You gave a thumbs-up to a nurse, and we had never been more relieved. I remember those first words you uttered once the breathing tube was removed, and family surrounded you. You said, “Everywhere I look, there’s a Traff.” It was a beautiful and joyful moment; certainly, none of us understood then how brief our joy would be. You were focused on recovering, fighting to regain abilities and memories, hand in hand with the love of your life. Les was there for you, every step of the way, until…one day, he wasn’t.  

It was your fifty-third anniversary, July 8, 2014, on the day Les didn’t show up.  I remember it and shudder. I remember R.J. getting a phone call as we talked to the nurses about where Les might be. I remember the look on R.J.’s face as he came back to us at the nurses’ station after taking that call and said, “My dad shot himself. He’s dead.” I remember shaking and leaning on the nurses’ desk so I would stay upright. I remember entering your room to find you demanding to know where Les was, shouting, “It’s my anniversary! I want to know where my husband is! Is he DEAD?” I remember the pain on your face when we told you yes, and you responded with, “I’ve killed him!” At the time, you thought he might have had a heart attack from the stress of your illness or died in a car accident traveling from the hospital to Austin. I remember sitting with you in your hospital room that evening while R.J. went over to Austin to see what needed to be done. I remember the following day, when you wanted to know the details of your husband’s death, and we had to find the words to tell you that he had committed suicide. I remember each and every painful moment, but I didn’t feel that pain like you did. Les wasn’t the love of my life. The deepest, darkest days were yours and yours alone.

Barb, you did it. You didn’t curl up into a ball and give up. You took that devastating blow that you were dealt, and you kept on going. You found love and joy in your friends and family. You had a lot of dark days, but you didn’t give in to them. You found a way to keep taking one step after another, to make many difficult decisions, and to recreate your life by yourself, without Les. I don’t know if I ever told you how proud I was of you. I hope you knew.

© 2016 Sarah Peterson 

© 2016 Sarah Peterson 

Barb, I miss you. I miss our talks. I miss the way you loved my kids. I miss hearing, “Hello, beautiful!” when I walked into your apartment. I miss our trips to the grocery store to get your weekly supply of Pringles. I miss your sense of humor. I miss our Saturday lunches at Wendy’s. I even miss our Walmart runs. I’m so glad for the extra two and a half years we got to spend together, after we thought we would be saying goodbye, but I wanted more. I wasn’t ready to let you go.

We’re here today to carry out the plans you made for your final resting place, to put you in the same grave with Les. You were always very clear about your wishes, and I’m thankful for that. We knew just what you wanted. I’m sorry it has taken us almost seven months to get this final task done, but here we are at last. Your earthly remains will be resting with Les’s. There is so much more to life and death than this cemetery plot. We rejoice in the knowledge of your love for Jesus and find comfort in our confidence that you are spending eternity with Him. We know we’ll see you again. So this is it, Barb. Love you, and goodbye for now.