O Death, Where is Your Sting

The following is an account of the night Paul died, June 5-6, 2013.  I've told this story numerous times already as it actually gives me a measure of comfort (I don't know if that is weird or not).  So it is probably nothing new to my readers.  Some may actually prefer not to read it, finding an account of death disturbing.  It took me three nights to write it and it was kind of emotionally taxing.  But I am grateful that I got it done.  For better or worse, the events of that night are recorded.

June 18, 2013 – June 20, 2013

 

 

Within a few days of Paul’s death it occurred to me that there might be some value in writing down every detail from the night he died and I determined then that I would do that.  I guess, in thinking about, it’s not totally necessary that I do so, particularly since this is the single most horrific event of my entire lifetime.  Why would I want to recall all the details?  Maybe it’s my wide streak of morbidity.  Maybe it’s for my kids, since they all, save for Will, slept through the event.  Maybe it’s so that someday, decades from now, I will shake my head to think that I went through such events and didn’t crumble.  I don’t know.  But, for whatever reason, I am recording the events of that night.

 

And, actually, there are a few details that have to be added that occurred prior to the night of June 5^th and 6^th.

 

Paul began having seizures in his late teens.  Actually, when he was a toddler he suffered a febrile seizure and had to go to the hospital.  His mom always wondered if that was the start of his seizure problems.  His dad was convinced it was because they cooked him food on aluminum pans while growing up.  Everyone always second-guesses themselves when it comes to things like this.  Paul and I began dating when we were 19.  I remember he told me about his seizures, but the ones he described to me were of the petit mal variety.  In fact, just the other day I ran across some 3X5 cards he had recorded on at the time entitled, “Ceasure history,” which made me laugh (the spelling, that is).  He was attempting to establish a link at the time between his diet and seizure activity.  If Paul was having grand mal seizures at the time he didn’t know and nobody else did, either, since he slept alone.

 

A month after we were married I was awakened one night by Paul making strange vocal noises, getting out of bed, and stumbling around our bedroom.  At first I thought he was trying to be funny.  I quickly realized though, that this must be one of the seizures he had told me about.  I do not know why it never occurred to me to call for emergency help.  It just didn’t.  Soon, he fell back into bed and went to sleep.

 

And thus, a pattern was established.  When Paul would get overly tired or stressed, he would tend to have grand mal seizures in his sleep.  He would thrash around, often biting his tongue or clawing at his face.  The next day he would have no memory of anything, although he would have side effects sometimes that lasted for days – fuzzy headedness, impotence, loss of taste, etc.  But he never, ever called in sick because of a seizure.  There were times he would seize multiple times in a night and still get up for work the next day.

 

Paul was reluctant to take medication for his seizures, even though I urged him to do so.  He preferred to treat things naturally and he took a variety of herbs and vitamins, hoping he would eventually find the magic combination that would let him live seizure-free.  Finally, in the summer of 1996 (July 4^th, actually, I remember) he had such severe seizures that he fell off the bed and cut up his chest on a sharp plastic garbage can we had beside the bed.  After that time, he agreed to go to the dr.

 

Paul was put through a battery of tests and eventually diagnosed with epilepsy, cause unknown.  He then began a series of different drugs that definitely worked.  Unfortunately, they caused him to be more fatigued, which made things more difficult for him especially as Ben was born during this time and David came along just a couple of years later.  His birth coincided with the purchase of our first home, which then began a 14 year odyssey of home remodeling, done on the weekends and late into the week nights after Paul arrived home from work.

 

Three or four years ago Paul participated in an epilepsy study at the McFarland Clinic in Ames.  They were testing a new drug and Paul agreed to be a guinea pig.  I honestly don’t know if he ended up sticking with the drug they tested on him or if it was something else, but Paul and I developed a good relationship with his new neurologist, Dr. Moore.  He put Paul on Keppra, which seemed like a wonder drug to us.  For the first time, Paul was nearly seizure free.  He very rarely had his petit mal seizures anymore and even when he had his grand mal seizures, they were rare and he could function the next day with little to no side effects. During the last decade, too, I had learned to intervene at the start of his seizures and was often able to interrupt them.  For the first time, I began to sleep deeply.  For years, I had learned to be a light sleeper, alert to any changes in Paul’s breathing that would indicate a coming seizure.  Life was good.

 

Looking back, the only thing that raises a possible alarm in my mind is that for the last year, Paul had had great difficulty sleeping the entire night through, which was frustrating to him.  He would often awaken around 3 or 4am and be unable to sleep any more.  He also struggled with ringing in his eyes and very dry eyes.  We figured it was probably all related to his drug.  But because it kept him relatively seizure-free, we didn’t pursue making any changes.

 

God was preparing to take Paul home, but we didn’t know it, of course.  Now we can look back on events and say, “Oh, God was working even then!”  The week before Paul’s death was crazy as we attempted to finish the house and clean everything up for Will’s graduation party.  Paul was missing sleep, which wasn’t a good thing.  In addition, he was getting up early every morning because he was working on a letter to Will.  This letter was a missive of sorts.  It was about 6 pages long and filled with fatherly advice to Will as he was about to set out on his adult journey.  Will treasures that letter now and even quoted from it at Paul’s funeral.

 

The night before Paul died, as we had been drifting off to sleep, being the needy female that I am, I had suggested to Paul that he needed to tell me how “amazing” I am.  He was really quiet and then I heard a light snore.  I laughed and told him I’d let him off the hook this time.  At 4 am the next morning, June 5, Paul awakened and then woke me up.  He began to tell me many things he loved about me and how special I was to him.    Then, I fell back asleep and didn’t even awaken to make his breakfast because I was so tired from being woke up at 4 that morning!  Later that day, we were chatting on the phone and I said something about being a “bad wife” because of that and Paul told me I “worried too much.”  He was always saying that.

 

My Wednesday was a normal day.  Actually, it was kind of nice.  I had been taking that week easy after the rush of the previous week and weekend.  I was tackling some long put-off projects and enjoying my still-clean house and brand new kitchen floor.  Will and David took the Littles to VBS that night and soon afterwards, Paul came home.  He walked in the house, crooked his finger and said, “Come here!”  Curious, I followed him out to his work van.  He asked me, “What did you call those chairs your grandparents used to have outside their house?”  I told him they were called “fan-back” chairs and I’d been keeping my eyes peeled for awhile, hoping to find some.  Well, that day, one of his customers had some sitting curbside and happily gave them to Paul when he asked.  Paul pulled them out of the van and explained that while they were a little rough-looking now, he planned to sand them and then we could spray paint them whatever color I wanted.  We carried them up to the deck and practiced sitting in them.  Then, Paul changed his clothes and left in my van to go to a side job for one of his elderly customers.

 

I had a long evening stretching in front of me, so I spent some time applying French tips to my nails (that I would later peel off in the wee hours of the morning as I sat with our pastors in their wives in my living room, stunned to my very core that Paul was suddenly gone.  I don’t know that I will ever wear French tips again.) and watching some crime show on television.  Paul got home around 10:30, explaining that the job turned out to be more of a job than he had envisioned and he actually had to run to a store for parts while up there.  He showered and came to bed.  I was already there.  David had come into my room while Paul was in the shower and had shared his shock over some information he had just discovered in the “So You’re About to be a Teenager” book we had given him in April when he and Paul took their trip.  His shock had to do with the birds and bees and it was all I could do to contain my laughter until David left.  I couldn’t wait to tell Paul and when he came to bed I did and we had a good laugh.  It was about 11:30.  Paul leaned over, kissed me, and said, “I love you!” like he did every night.  We both fell instantly asleep.

 

Ten minutes before midnight Paul began to have a grand mal seizure.  He sat up in bed, which was unusual, although he had done that before.  He had even walked around during a seizure before, which concerned me for safety reasons.  Once, he even went outside in his underwear during a seizure!  I was not about to let that happen this time.  I quickly grabbed his right hand and attempted to unfurl his fingers, which was the trick that usually worked for bringing him out of a seizure.  It didn’t work and Paul began to attempt to get off the bed.  I hung onto his arm with all my might.  He then fell over my body onto the floor, on my side of the bed, head down, with his feet up in the air.  At this point, I knew Paul would have to come out of the seizure by himself.  I could not move him.  I knew that within a few minutes he would awaken, realize he was not where he needed to be, and crawl back into bed.  I decided to go back to sleep.  So I laid there for about 7 minutes while Paul laid on the floor.  But his feet were tangled up in the sheets and I couldn’t relax.  It suddenly occurred to me that I ought to take a picture of him because he did look kind of funny, with his legs sticking straight up like that.  We could laugh about it the next day.  So, I crept out of bed, located my camera in the next room, flipped on the light switch and took his picture.  But then I realized there was blood near Paul’s head.  Concerned, I looked closer.  I saw that he dinged his nose on my vanity bench.  My first feeling was one of frustration.  We were scheduled to have a family picture taken in two days and now we were going to have to wait until that nose healed.  I wasn’t sure, but he kind of looked like he might need a stitch or two.  I leaned in closer an then saw a small pool of blood under Paul’s face.  It wasn’t coming from his nose, but from inside his mouth.  I began to frantically feel for a heartbeat, for a pulse – for anything.  I grabbed my phone and called 911.  I told them that my husband had suffered a seizure and I couldn’t wake him. 

 

I ran up to Will’s room and told him what was going on.  He jumped out of bed like I had lit a match to his foot.  He barreled down the steps and began feeling for a pulse.  I noticed that Paul’s face was gray, but I reasoned to myself that he was upside down and all the blood had rushed to his head.  I quickly dressed, brushed my hair, and even got a bag of Paul’s clothes ready.  After all, it looked like we were going to the hospital, but he would need some clothes for the trip home.  I even thought to throw my kindle and migraine pills into my purse.  I was ready!

 

It took about 15 minutes for the sheriff to arrive and about another 5 for the paramedics to come.  The sheriff came in and immediately lowered Paul’s feet and turned him over.  He began yelling loudly, “Paul!  Paul!”  But there was no response.  In the meantime, Will was doubled over on the front lawn, scared to death and in so much pain his body couldn’t take it.  I remember holding onto Will trying to recite Psalm 23 and being unable to remember all the words.  I was scared.

 

The paramedics rushed into the house, shoved our bed out of the way and began to do chest compressions on Paul.  The sheriff kept trying to shoo me out of the room, but I didn’t want to leave.  Paul’s face was so gray, so very, very gray.  The sheriff finally lead me to the kitchen and began asking some basic questions – what happened, Paul’s name, birthdate, etc.  He then turned to me and said, “I’m not going to lie to you – this may not turn out well.”  I am suspicious now that the sheriff already knew that Paul was dead at that point.

 

I had attempted to call our senior pastor when it looked like we’d be going to the hospital.  He had not answered (it was midnight, after all) and I had left a message.  Then, I called our asst. pastor.  I do not remember if I got him right away or if he called me back.

 

They strapped Paul to a board and took him out to the ambulance.  I peeked through the back window and I could see them still working on him, pushing on his chest over and over and over again.  I realized later they had also intubated him.  I don’t know how long it was, but the sheriff walked over to me.  I was standing on the sidewalk in front of the porch.  He said, “I’m so sorry.  We did everything we could, but your husband didn’t make it.”

 

I had just been delivered the most horrible news of my entire life.  I felt as though I were drowning.  I didn’t scream, I don’t even know if I moaned.  I just stood there, while the sheriff talked and asked who he could call for us.  I remember thinking that I was dreaming.  I would wake up and gulp mouthfuls of fresh air, relieved beyond measure that my horrible nightmare had ended.  Then, I would squeeze Paul in bed beside me, just to reassure myself that it had, indeed, been only a terrible dream.

 

I remember grabbing my phone and calling our assistant pastor back and just crying out to him, “Oh, Terry – Paul is dead, my husband is dead!”  I remember the terrible silence and then Terry telling me how sorry he was and that he would be there shortly.

 

I called my mom and left a message on their answering machine.  She called back within minutes, telling me over and over again that she didn’t know what to say.  The next morning she and Dad would throw some things in their car and would arrive by lunchtime.

 

I then made the hardest call I have ever made in my life, to Paul’s parents.  I got them both on the line and told them what had happened. I will never, ever forget the sound of Paul’s mother’s wails.  It was one of the most heart-wrenching things I have ever experienced in my life – informing a mother that her child has died.

 

While waiting for Terry to arrive, I suddenly was seized with the desire to see Paul again.  I asked to go in the ambulance and the crew quietly opened the door for me.  I would end up doing this at least twice more before they would take Paul.  I went in and Paul lay there under the bright lights so terribly still.  A blanket was draped around his waist.  A vent was in his mouth and blood was smeared all over the left side of his face and head.  He was terribly gray in color.  I couldn’t stop touching him – his soft hair, his bald scalp, the expanse of his broad chest.  And then suddenly, I would have enough, and have to go back outside.

 

When I walked out of the ambulance, Terry had arrived and was holding Will who was weeping.  He turned to me and embraced me as well.  Soon Joan, his wife, arrived and enveloped me in her arms.  Our senior pastor and his wife arrived almost immediately after that.  I was hugged repeatedly, but felt very little.  I do remember Joan sitting with me on our porch swing, rocking back and forth while she wrapped her arm around me.

 

The medical examiner soon arrived.  I know I was handed various pieces of paperwork to sign, but I don’t know what they were.  For all I knew, I was signing a confession that I had just murdered my husband (I hadn’t, but it occurred to me a day or so later that a terrible way to compound such a tragedy would be if a wife was mistakenly arrested for her husband’s murder – how awful that would be!  Fortunately, I only had to imagine such a scenario, and not live it).

 

I remember at some point inviting Terry to look at Paul and he did.  He pointed out to me a dent in Paul’s head I had not noticed earlier.  That dent was still visible the days of his viewing and funeral.  I don’t know yet if he hit his head there or if that was simply from resting against the corner of my vanity bench for so long.

 

And then, some sort of station wagon arrived.  It was into this vehicle they took Paul.  He was put into a white body bag and taken out of the ambulance.  His head was covered and he looked exactly what he was – a corpse.  I am quite sure my knees buckled a bit when they brought him out of the ambulance that way.

 

I was lead into my house by our pastors and their wives.  I began to scurry around, picking things up.  I knew that I would be having a great deal of company in the days to come and I had to have my house picked up!  I think Marcia, our pastor’s wife, attempted to get me to sit down.  In the end, she and Joan helped me pick up.  Pastor and Terry asked for some bleach and they cleaned the bedroom floor of Paul’s blood and moved our bed back into place.

 

Then we sat.  I don’t remember much of what was said, although I seem to recall that our pastor prayed.  I think he did – I don’t really remember.  I remember being so cold and shaking with shock.  Joan put a blanket over me.  Will headed up to bed after a little while.  Soon, I received a call about donating Paul’s organs and within minutes the organ donation center was on the phone with me, asking all kinds of questions about Paul’s health history.

 

Then, everybody but Marcia left.  It was about 4 am by this point.  The two of us sat in the dark and talked.  I told her about the morning before when Paul had awakened me.  She told me about a death in her family.   She quoted Bible verses to me.  Eventually, I tried to lay in my bed and she fell asleep on my couch.  I never slept.  I am a person who needs their sleep!  In college, I used to marvel at my fellow collegians who bragged of pulling all-nighters.  I could never do that.  I was never good about being up in the night with babies, which is how they usually found their way into bed with me!  But I did not sleep the night my husband died.

 

By 6:30, I was showered and dressed.  I grabbed my Bible – the one Paul gave me for my 38^th birthday – and pored through the Psalms, reading them out loud to Marcia.  She scribbled a hasty list for me of ones that I found comforting. Two weeks later, I am still referring to that original list.  Then, we made a list of people to call.  I first called Paul’s boss, who was stunned by my news.  Marcia called most of the others.

 

At 7:30, I received a call from my friend, Tammy.  She asked simply, “Can I come?”  I answered with one word, “Please” and she did, for the entire day, leaving her own busy household of 8 children behind.

 

Pastor Johnson then arrived back at our house and the children began to awake, one by one.  David was puzzled as he walked into the kitchen and saw his friend, Jonathan (Tammy’s son) sitting at the kitchen table.  I knew I didn’t have much time before the kids would figure out something was drastically wrong.  I gathered them around and told them that their father was dead.  I don’t know if I have had a more difficult task than that one.  Four c-sections, a post-pregnancy stroke, a baby in the NICU, and an adolescent with autism were far easier to deal with than what I had to do that morning.  But I knew I had to be the one to do it.  I don’t remember everything I told them.  I do remember that as I delivered the news, they each began to weep and my heart broke open even wider to witness their pain.  I remember assuring them that we were “still a family.”  I remember thinking that I would endure anything if it meant I could take this pain from my children, but knowing I could not.

 

And there are other stories to tell.  I could write about all the people that crowded into my little house over the next few days – and who are still coming around with meals.  I haven’t done my own laundry or cleaned my house since before Paul’s death.  Every time I turn around someone is begging me to let them do something for us.

 

I could write about how our pastor and his wife suspended their own lives to be there for us.  In fact, tomorrow morning they are meeting me up in Urbandale at my insurance agent’s office.  Tonight my pastor informed the people of our church that it is getting hot and someone needs to get our pool set up for us!  I remember our pastor sharing with us the morning after Paul’s death about how dear the widows and orphans are to God.  I am learning that they are also dear to our pastors and our church.

 

I could write about the blur of  days leading up to Paul’s funeral and the funeral itself, which was – amazing and profound.

 

I could write about grief – not my own, but others’.  I quickly realized that I was not the only one hurting and those crowded around me were looking for relief from their own pain.  And, oddly enough,  some of them were hoping to find that relief from me.

 

I could write about the stack of cards that came to me and continue to arrive daily, even fourteen days after Paul’s death.  I could write about the hundreds of Facebook messages and emails that poured into my computer, lifting me up in spirit and to the Lord.

 

In time, I will probably cover it all, one way or the other. 

 

The death of my husband is the single most profound event of my life.  And, as odd as it may sound, I am thankful I was there.  Even though I wasn’t quite aware it was happening, I was there as he drew his last breath and entered Eternity.  I was the last person he spoke to, cuddled with, and laughed with.  Paul loved me.  And I loved him, even as he slipped away into the arms of Jesus.

 

This is the story of his death – and the beginning of his new life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 13

DIARY OF AN UNWILLING WIDOW

 

June 19, 2013

 

Day 13

 

I dreamed of Paul early this morning.  I’m thanking God for that.  Last night my friend Mishelle brought supper and she asked if I had dreamed about Paul yet.  I told her I had not, but most of my sleep is dreamless right now because I’m still dependent on the Advil PMs to get any sleep at all.  She said that she would pray I would dream of him.

 

Last night I only took half a PM pill and it did take longer to fall asleep, although I was tired.  I started working (writing) on my account of the night of Paul’s death.  Emotionally, I was a bit of a wreck by the time I made myself quit (it was getting late and I don’t want to get into the habit of staying up too late and then sleeping in in the morning.  The kids need me alert when they are).  I found myself physically shaking as I relived the events of that night.  And then I fell asleep and dreamed of Paul. 

 

The dream was two-fold.  In the first part, Paul was here, but something was wrong with him.  He was sitting at a table and couldn’t talk to us.  His eyes were vacant.  In my dream I was telling myself that he was going to have to “go to Glenwood.”  Where we used to live, in SW Iowa, there is a large facility for the mentally disabled in Glenwood, IA.  I think that’s where that part of the dream came from – not that he would have ended up there in real life.  But you know, in those moments that Paul was laying on the floor while I waited for the ambulance, I was pretty sure he was no longer breathing.  And I know, of course, what lack of oxygen does to the brain.  I remember thinking, “what if?” and then pushed the thoughts away that night while waiting for help.  We could be in a whole different world of hurt right now if Paul had not died, but had sustained a brain injury instead.  I don’t know that it would necessarily be worse than what we are dealing with now, but it would be different and very, very difficult for a variety of reasons.

 

In the second part of my dream, Paul had died.  But then, he came back to me.  He no longer had his beard for some reason.  I couldn’t stop touching him – his face, his arms, his chest.  I was chattering away to him and I remember in the dream sputtering, “But you died!  I saw them carry you out of the ambulance in a body bag! They did an autopsy on you - we buried you!”  Paul told me that he had felt them cutting into him for the autopsy but was too out of it to say anything.  He then told me – and this makes me laugh in the light of reason and day right now – that he had simply popped open his casket lid and clawed through the dirt in order to walk home to us.  Then  I began telling Paul all about his funeral – how packed out it was and how many people had come to say good-bye to him.  I told him about all the cards I’ve been receiving and the many gifts, financial and otherwise, that have come our way as a result of his death.  Then, in my dream I began to worry about just how I was going to return all the things that had been given and would people be mad that they had been cooking and cleaning for us when Paul wasn’t dead after all?

 

At that moment I woke up from my dream.  It was exactly 6am.  Two emotions immediately flooded my sleepy being – 1) relief that I would not have to explain to people that my once-presumed dead husband really wasn’t and 2) a crushing sadness that Paul really and truly is gone and won’t ever come to me, except when we meet again in Heaven someday.  Later, as I began my day, I also felt a profound sense of thankfulness to the Lord for allowing that dream.  He had answered both Mishelle’s and my prayer.

 

My Moms of Special Needs Kiddos group came out to my house Monday night.  It was our regular meeting.  They came for me.  They brought food and gifts – and chocolate!  They know me!  Amy, who leads our group and who I consider to be a dear friend, had thought of a series of questions.  For about 45 minutes, I was asked question after question about Paul.  It was so freeing to talk about him and to “introduce” my friends to my husband (most knew only me from the group).  I honestly loved it.  I am already noticing that some people don’t bring up Paul to me.  I know their motives are good, thinking they are sparing me pain.  But they don’t realize that thoughts of my husband consume my being.  He is ALL I think about and there are times I am just bursting to talk about him.  I am already in so much pain that talking about him cannot possibly hurt any more than I already do.  And so I was grateful. We listened to Will's testimony at the funeral and watched the dvd of his pictures that was played at the viewing.   And then, I was prayed for, out loud.  I wept in gratitude and thanksgiving as they prayed.  What a precious gift they gave me that night.  I will never, ever forget it.

 

I did some shopping today – normal, pre-widowhood type of errands.  It took longer than I thought it would.  But then, everything takes longer these days.  Lizzie wanted to come, so I brought her.  I would have had Ben, but his former school aide and friend, Deb, came and picked him for me today.  Deb is precious.  I called her last night, knowing that Ben needs some diversion.  He is going crazy right now at home.  I didn’t realize that Deb is now babysitting her grandkids 4 days a week.  I called her and she didn’t even hesitate and said, “How about tomorrow?”  It was the one day this week that she would not have her grandkids, and she happily gave it up to help us.  I am humbled.  Yesterday, one of Ben’s teachers came and sat with me for 3 hours.  I got to know her in a way I would not have, otherwise.  I have a feeling that our family has suddenly become very dear to the staff at Pleasantville, based on a number of things.  We got many, many cards from people I don’t know, who identified themselves as affiliated with the school there.  I know Ben was a favorite there before, but I have a feeling that things  have changed even from that.

 

But anyway, I ran these errands and I was doing ok.  Then, I stopped at the Christian Book store and as I was checking out the clerk (told to cross-sell, no doubt) asked if I would like to contribute to the “widows and orphans fund.”  I looked up at her and said softly, “I’m a widow.”  She looked astonished and then said, “Well, never you mind, then!  Then she commented, “You look too young to be a widow.”  I replied, “I’m 42, as was my husband.  I’ve been widowed for 13 days now.”  The clerk’s face crumpled and she walked around from behind the counter and gave me a big hug and told me how sorry she was.  Tears came then.

 

I’ve been seeking out comforting music on my mp3 player since about 4 days after Paul’s death.  It’s funny – none of the secular songs I have downloaded have any appeal for me right now. Of course, neither do any of the love songs, secular or Christian, with the exception of our wedding songs.  On the way home today I listened to the song,  What’s Mine is Yours by Katherine Nelson.  The song is actually about miscarriage, infertility, and teenage pregnancy - nothing relevant to my life right now.  But the chorus really spoke to me and I found myself singing it to God as I drove:

 

What’s mine is yours,

It’s always been,

What slips through my hand has Your fingerprints on it,

I’m letting go, remembering

Though Heaven’s doors feel shut,

They’re wide open,

What’s mine is Yours…

 

In my reading this morning, I found myself in Romans 8 again.  Of course, I love verse 28 and have reminded the boys and myself of the promise of this verse several times since Paul’s Homegoing.  Today, though, I read McArthur’s notes on verse 29 and learned something new – something comforting.  I’ve always thought verse 29 was a simple answer to the question of election and predestination.  It is, but McArthur goes on to explain that this verse speaks of a predetermined choice of God to set His love on us and to establish an intimate relationship with us.  I had never thought about that before.  But, I can see it.  Never in my entire life have I felt so loved by God as I do right now.  I can even, in kind of a weird way, see that God’s allowing Paul to die is a way to move my focus to Him.  It’s not that it was not there to begin with, but I always had Paul the to provide for my deepest need of love, intimacy, and security.  That’s been ripped away and I feel God sliding into His place and saying, “You were loved deeply by your husband, but now I want you to feel my love.”

 

And I do.

 



Day 11

June 17, 2013

 

Day 11

 

Yesterday was Father’s Day.  We had lots of people sensitive to that fact who made sure we knew we were loved.  But it couldn’t erase the fact that it was still Father’s Day and my children now have no earthly father.  David said the hardest thing for him was when they recognized the dads in church and his was not standing up with all the other men.  I wish I could take that hurt from him.

 

After church we bought a small balloon for Paul’s grave that says, “Happy Father’s Day” and tied it to his marker.  The kids and I talked about past Father’s Days as we stood around his grave.  We were reminded of last year.  It was the craziest, nuttiest day.  Paul was on call and I was doing respite care for a trio of foster siblings when one had to go by ambulance to the hospital because he was goofing around with a neighbor on a golf cart.  Will was leaving for Jumpstart at FBBC and I had a lady coming to look at my treadmill.  But in the midst of all that chaos, we managed to squeeze in a short Father’s Day celebration for Paul.  Didn’t know it would be his last one.

 

Being a good father was of paramount importance to Paul.  I remember in the months leading up to Will’s graduation, he asked me several times if I thought he had “done enough.”  I think he did.  I had a long conversation with my friend, Jen, this morning.  She commented, “We know what kind of a man Paul was because we watched Will at his funeral.”  Special.

 

We listened to Will’s testimony again yesterday on the way to church.  Amazing.  It’s hard to believe that this mature and composed young man is someone I gave birth to – someone that Paul and I made together.  He was born to two immature people and somehow grew into this loving, strong, tender-hearted young man despite that.

 

You know the feeling when you’re in a swimming pool and the water is about waist-deep and you attempt to walk?  That’s how I feel about everything right now.  It all takes so much effort.  My guess is that that is normal.  Not pleasant, though.

 

I haven’t cried yet today, not even when I woke up.  Typically, that’s a hard time because we usually woke up together.  Well, we woke up together because his alarm would wake me every single morning!  Otherwise, I would have been content to sleep hours past when he typically arose.  Yesterday, I cried more.  I would be dry-eyed and then someone at church would ask me how I was doing and I would suddenly be a blubbery mess all over again.  We ate lunch with a family at church and I had to escape to the kitchen, gasping at a sudden wave of pain that came out of nowhere.

 

The cards continue to roll in.  I must have a stack that is at least 7” tall – unbelievable.  I had a letter and card today from my old first grade teacher, of all people.  She said that the church I grew up in (my parents haven’t attended there since ’96) printed an announcement of Paul’s death which was how she learned of it.  My Jewels of Encouragement group sent me a stack of Bible verses today that have my name inserted into them.  I’m guessing there are about 40 of these, all printed onto beautiful cardstock.  They have a little plate stand and I can have a new verse every day.  I am so touched.  I never realized that tragedy inspired such generosity in others.  Why would I?  I’ve never been affected by it before.  My mom told me last night she is ordering some books on grief and widowhood for me.  I am looking forward to those.  A friend of mine prayed around the clock for me, every hour on the hour, retreating to her prayer closet (a literal walk-in closet in her home) last Monday and Tuesday.  I told another friend today that I am reminded of those scenes on tv or movies where a building is on fire so the firemen whip out this parachute type of deal and put it above the ground to catch the falling victims of the fire.  We’re the victims, our whole world is on fire, and that parachute is composed of the prayers of others.

 

I had a letter last week from one of Paul’s customers.  He had a number of customers who insisted every time that only Paul come work on their furnaces.  I would assume all the service techs had this.  This lady heard of Paul’s death, got my address, and wrote me a glowing letter about how wonderful and patient Paul had always been with them.  I know  Paul had a special place in his heart for his elderly customers.  He would always tell me that he wished he had more time to spend with these older, lonely people.  Her letter touched me.  I will have to write her back.  Today, the wife of one of Paul’s co-workers called me.  She said that another of Paul’s regulars had called in, requesting him, and was given the bad news.  So they sent out Mike, my friend’s husband.  She said that Mike got there and the lady harrumphed and said, “Well, you’re not as cute as Paul, but I guess you’ll do!”  I think that was the first time I laughed since Paul died.  She told me that all the service techs agreed that they are not going to cover up Paul’s stickers on the furnaces (the guys would leave Loziers stickers with their names on them so that future techs would know who had last serviced and to whom they could direct any questions).

 

I’ve been thinking lately about the manner in which Paul died – the suddenness.  Is it better to have a long good-bye, such as with cancer or no good-bye at all, like we had?  Fortunately, we don’t get to make that choice. Paul didn’t suffer.  He didn’t rack up medical bills.  When we went to bed on Wed. night we were laughing together about one of the kids.  He kissed me goodnight and said, “I love you” like he always did.  And that was it.  But if I had known it was the last time – there’s so much I could have told him.

 

I would have told him he was my life.  That I loved him.  And as much as I loathe the term, “soulmate” he was that and more to me.  I would have told him how proud I was of him.  I would have told him that my heart still jumps when I hear his van crunch over the gravel in the alley and his footstep sounds on the back step.  How the timbre of his voice still sent shivers down my insides.  I hope he knew all that because I never told him enough.

 

David commented that the “days seem to be longer” now.  I agree.  The days – even the years and decades to come – stretch out in front of me right now as a bleak and barren landscape.  Death is so final.  As horrible as it would have been, I think I could have survived a death of a child more easily than this.  At least Paul and I would have had eachother to hold onto.

 

If I am realistic, I know that the suffering and sorrow is only for a season.  Psalms repeatedly reminds me of that.  There will come a day when my heart is not nearly so raw and empty.  But right now I find it difficult to believe that I will ever have a reason to smile again.

 

 

 

 

 

Day 9

I was possessed again today by an urge to work on Unwilling Widow Diary.  I'm not sure how long I will keep this up, but it seems to be filling a need for now.  So, I share.

June 15, 2013

 

Day 9

 

This morning our pastor and another man from church, John,  came out and did a walk-through of the house in order to gain a better understanding of what work remains to be done and so they can estimate a final cost for me.  We went through, room by room.  I told them what Paul had in mind, but offered some of my own ideas as well that I thought might save on time and work.  John turned to me and said, “Sarah, I want to honor Paul’s memory by doing this how the way HE wanted it done.”  I was touched by that.  Both and he and Pastor commented several times on the quality of Paul’s workmanship.  They want to get a crew together and knock this stuff out.  I know Paul was thinking it would be several years before he would get everything done (the final phase of the basement, the living room, and the bathroom/bedroom project) but maybe it is going to be done sooner than that?  I don’t know.  I’m just so amazed it is going to get finished at all.  Immediately upon Paul’s death Will began brainstorming as to how we could finish things up without having to do all the work Paul had intended.

 

I am chilled today – it’s coming from inside me, I can tell.  A fatigue has settled into my bones as well, although it doesn’t cause me to sleep any better.  I am still dependent on the Advil PMs to fall asleep at all.

 

I changed our sheets yesterday.  Painful.  I carefully folded them up and put them in a large ziplock bag.  I will never use them again.  But as I crawled into bed I was reminded of how appreciative Paul always was when I did get around to putting fresh sheets on the bed.  He’d stretch out his legs and wiggle his toes over the clean sheets.  I wonder if someone changes his sheets in Heaven?  Maybe there’s no sleep there – I don’t know.

 

I found out yesterday that a dear friend has been dx with breast cancer.  It’s really serious and her prognosis does not look good right now.  She has two young teenagers and a 5 month old baby.  The hits keep coming. 

 

A number of people – primarily, those that are not in close fellowship with the Lord – have commented to me that they just don’t know “why” this happened.  I’ve been thinking about that.  Of course, I don’t know the why, either.  But right now, I can say that that is ok.  I don’t have to know why.  I mean, this is God we’re talking about.  I am reminded of Job where God points out that He was there when the earth was being formed and orchestrated all the events of Creation.  Who are WE to question God?  That said, though, I am still filled with a number of concerns, even if I don’t have to have an answer to God’s thinking.  I was talking to Him the other night and complaining/wailing about just how on earth was I supposed to do this – raising the kids, continuing to homeschool, the house, the finances, vehicles, the lonliness, the lack of companionship, holidays, my empty bed,  etc.  I immediately sensed the voice of God.  You know, there have been just a few times – less than a handful – where I can say I honestly heard the voice of God.  This was one of them.  It was quiet, but it was sure.  The voice said,

“Trust Me.”

 

That was all – “Trust Me.”  I have no choice but to obey.  But it will be one of the harder things I’ve ever done.  At the same time, though, it has to be easier than trying to figure out things on my own.

 

I’m reading a book on grief right now that was given to me a Christmastime.  A friend of a friend wrote it, which is how I ended up with a copy.  I had just asked God for a book that I didn’t have to buy and less than an hour later I discovered this small white book stashed on the bookshelf out in the old office.  I’m finding it helpful.  I would like to find a book specifically written to widows, though.  There must be something.  It occurred to me this morning that Elisabeth Elliot was widowed young.  I’ve always enjoyed her ministry.  I wonder if she wrote something during that time of her life that I could use right now.

 

I’ve gotten up to the cemetery every day this week.  I sit up there, chatting away to Paul.  I feel a bit like a crazy lady, but it helps.  I’ve even stuffed a plastic stool in the van that I can sit on while there.  I wonder how long it will take for Paul’s grave to fill in and not look so fresh.  I found another recent grave up there and the marker said the occupant died in late January.  So I guess it takes awhile for the earth to recover from being disturbed like that.  I need to find a monument company.  I know what I want for Paul’s tombstone – simple, but something more than just his name and dates.  He would not want me to spend much money, I know that.  It will have to wait, anyway, until after the insurance money arrives.

 

I received a letter from the organ donor people today.  They listed out all the body parts of Paul they were able to salvage.  It’s a lot – his corneas, a lot of skin, veins, heart valves.  I’m pleased that parts of him are going to help others.  Of course, I’d be more pleased if he were still the one using them!

 

Marcia (our pastor’s wife) gave us a cd of  12 of Paul’s special music numbers recorded over the last few years.  She gave me quite a few copies with the assurance she can make even more.  David put them onto my mp3 player.  Paul was such a “minister” and it was rare for him to ever get up and just sing.  He had to “introduce” his music.  So not only do we hear him sing, but he speaks on this cd as well.  I find it enormously comforting.  I fear forgetting the sound of his voice and now I don’t ever have to worry about that.

 

I am amazed that I have managed to type so much today.  I am literally short of breath as I do this from a crushing weight in my chest.  I would think that would prohibit me from much creativity.  Maybe typing is healing.

 

I am struggling with regrets the past few days.  Memories of my shortfalls in our marriage are creeping in.  There are so many things I wish I would have done, or not done, or done differently.  There were times I could have been more loving, more self-sacrificing and wasn’t.  Why was I so stubborn about certain things?  Why was it so important that I have my own way?  I wonder if it is the Enemy bringing these things to mind.  Or maybe it’s just a natural occurrence when losing someone.  I don’t know.  I don’t like it.  I think I just need to focus on the positive things.  And there were a lot of positive things.

 

Yesterday I wandered around the cemetery a bit and read an inscription that said, “He loved and was loved.”  That describes my Paul, perfectly.

 

I miss my friend.

 

 

 

 

 

Diary of an Unwilling Widow

I am honestly not sure what to do about my blog these days.  I have daughters now so my world is not only about raising future men.  And, as of June 6th, I am no longer married (how it hurts to say that) because my husband has died.  But people know where to find me here so I am reluctant to start a new blog.  I rather imagine many of my posts to come will deal with grief and if I were to start a new blog, specifically dedicated to that subject,  that might be a turn-off to my readers.  Who wants to seek out a site solely about sadness?

I started journaling today.  It occurred to me last night that someday I might be interested in reading my thoughts from these early days.  Or perhaps, I will have the future opportunity to minister to others walking a similar path.  I say that and I immediately think, "Please, God, no !"  I would not wish this kind of pain on my worst enemy.

I was interrupted while typing this by yet another neighbor bringing us food.  God loves me.

I am copying most of my journaling today for this post:

June 14, 2013

 

I have been widowed for 8 days now.  My heart is broken, splintered, and shattered.  Oddly enough, I am also numb.  I miss my husband so much!  We had never been apart for more than 6 days in our entire 20 years of marriage.  And now, we’re apart until Jesus calls me home.  The pain is all consuming, radiating outward from my heart.  I have to remind myself to breathe.  As I was making lunch for myself, I thought, “Huh – I haven’t cried yet today!”  And then I began to weep because of that.

 

I am surrounded by those that love me.  The meals and housekeeping help keep coming.  My doorbell and phone ring constantly.  Just this morning Ben’s old sp. Ed teacher showed up at our back door.  He had been out of town and had just heard the news.  He wants to take the boys fishing sometime soon.

 

I hurt, oh I hurt.

 

After Paul died, one of my first prayers to the Lord was for wisdom.  I know that this is a time when foolish decisions are easily made in a number of areas.  I am tempted to avoid the pain by distractions – reading, television, housework.  But there is a part of me that instinctually recognizes that if I do those things, I am only avoiding and prolonging the inevitable.  I MUST go through this valley.  I am unwilling, but I have no choice.

 

People keep telling me how “strong” I am.  I am not strong.  I am as weak as every other person who has walked in my shoes.  I just haven’t quit yet, that’s all.  Jesus has to be my strength because I feel as helpless as a day old kitten. But yet, I MUST survive.  All Monday and Tuesday I looked longingly at Paul's casket, wishing with all my might I could just crawl inside it with him and be locked away forever.  I bent over his prone body and wet his suit with my tears because we were now separated. I love him - oh, how I love that man.

 

Ok, now I am really crying.  As I was typing, the doorbell rang (good thing Ellie is not home today as she is terrified of the doorbell).  It was the UPS man, making deliveries.  I was puzzled because I had not recently ordered anything.  My friend Sara had ordered a book for the kids that I can create for them, called, “Tell Me About Daddy” and a frame where we can put Paul’s picture.  It has a poem about death and Heaven on it.  And my friend Tina in Korea sent me an Amazon gift card. We have been flooded with gifts like this - humbling.  As I posted on Facebook last night, God is showing us how much He cares through others right now.  It still hurts, though – I’d do anything to still have Paul and not have all these gifts that are coming our way.  But yet, I am still grateful.

 

I must, I MUST believe the promise of Romans 8:28 – “For we know that all things work together for good (even widowhood at age 42) to those that love God and are called according to His purpose.”

 

 

When There are No Words

Psalm 46

 

God is our refuge and strength,
A very present help in trouble.
² Therefore we will not fear,
Even though the earth be removed,
And though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;
³ Though its waters roar and be troubled,
Though the mountains shake with its swelling. Selah

⁴ There is a river whose streams shall make glad the city of God,
The holy place of the tabernacle of the Most High.
⁵ God is in the midst of her, she shall not be moved;
God shall help her, just at the break of dawn.
⁶ The nations raged, the kingdoms were moved;
He uttered His voice, the earth melted.

⁷ The Lord of hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah

⁸ Come, behold the works of the Lord,
Who has made desolations in the earth.
⁹ He makes wars cease to the end of the earth;
He breaks the bow and cuts the spear in two;
He burns the chariot in the fire.

¹⁰ Be still, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth!

¹¹ The Lord of hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah

 

Psalm 91:1-6

 

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High
Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
² I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress;
My God, in Him I will trust.”

³ Surely He shall deliver you from the snare of the fowler^[a]
And from the perilous pestilence.
⁴ He shall cover you with His feathers,
And under His wings you shall take refuge;
His truth shall be your shield and buckler.
⁵ You shall not be afraid of the terror by night,
Nor of the arrow that flies by day,
⁶ Nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness,
Nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.

 

Psalm 146:9a

The Lord watches over the strangers;
He relieves the fatherless and widow;

Psalm 55:22

Cast your burden on the Lord,
And He shall sustain you;
He shall never permit the righteous to be moved.

 

Psalm 34:17-18

The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears,
And delivers them out of all their troubles.
¹⁸ The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart,
And saves such as have a contrite spirit.

 

WHEN THERE ARE NO WORDS,

HIS WORD WILL ALWAYS

BE ENOUGH

 



Graduation, Germs, Grossness, and Gentility

I have to start herding the girls towards bed in approximately 6 minutes, so I may not get this all done tonight.  But, seeing how it's the last thing on my to-do list for today, I'd sure like to try to get it done.

I went to three graduation open houses today.  The last was for one of Ben's Sp. Olympics teammates.  That was a sweet one.  She gave Ben a big hug when we walked into the driveway.  They had all kinds of desserts - cake, ice-cream and toppings, brownies, and -- a chocolate fountain with strawberries, pretzels, and marshmallows for dipping.  The kids were duly impressed, let me tell you!  They also fed a full pork meal, too.  I loved looking at her pictures.  Babies with Downs Syndrome are the cutest babies ever, I think!

At one of the other open houses, the graduate wore a shirt that proclaimed, "I'm sexy and I know it."  Classy.  I asked Will if he knew this kid's post-graduation plans and he replied, "partying, smoking, and getting tattooed."  Gotcha...

At the first party, they served us chicken cordon bleu!  It makes my planned hot dogs seem mighty cheap by comparison...

David is turning 14 next week.  That just kind of dawned on me a few days ago - not his birthday, but his age.  That's driving age!  So I've been letting him back the car out when the Littles need the driveway for bike riding.  When Will was 14, he was more than ready to get his permit.  He waltzed in there and aced the test on his first try.  Of course, he's the same boy who was giving me driving instructions from the back seat when he was six.  I don't think David is ready for a permit yet.  He's a nervous driver, which makes me nervous.  Just backing the van out around the house - a distance of maybe 6 feet, takes a good 10 min. and lots of stops and starts.  He's still not even sure which one is the brake pedal yet.  I may let Paul take over the driving instruction!

He and Ben have an egress window in their basement bedroom.  They have a window well now that's about 6' deep.  A man from church designed and built the entire thing for us, including the ladder that's down in there in case of fire.  It's really nice.  Well, a frog has taken up residence in the well and David is completely freaked out.  He hates frogs.  I mean, he hates frogs - always has.  He and Sam spent the majority of last Friday devising a trap made out of a box, a stick, and string that was designed to entrap the hapless reptile.  It didn't work, and the frog is still croaking outside David's window.  It's so bad the poor kid is having nightmares about frogs now!  I'm trying really hard not to laugh...

My mouth is doing lots better now.  I haven't had to take a pain pill since Monday.  I got my stitches out Tues. and the dentist said things are looking like they're supposed to.  I hope that's the last dental work I have to have for a long time!  I ended up catching Ellie's cold at the end of last week.  Only, it was a very odd cold.  Her's was a typical runny nose type cold.  But mine just gave me this nasty congestion that I had to blow out for about a week, but I never felt achy or sick and my nose didn't run.  I wonder if that has anything to do with the sinus surgery I had. But last Friday I woke up with complete laryngitis.  I have never lost my voice in my life (just ask my kids!) - it was so inconvenient!  I had to take Bella in for her surgery that day and had to whisper to the receptionist.  I received an important call from Ben's teacher and had to whisper on the phone to her - even more inconvenient!

Will is completely done with school now.  That means he's a little bit more available for help around the house, which is nice.  Wed. he had to have all his teachers sign off on his work.  His psych teacher who had him for 2 or 3 semesters sincerely told Will that the school is not the same since Will started.  He said that Will has changed the school for the better.  Wow!  Now, maybe he says that to all his students, I don't know, but it's still a nice thing to say!

This was our week for Craig's List finds.  We found 4 bar stools for the kitchen that match our cupboards perfectly for only $60.  And then I found a brand new love seat for $100.  Will wants to take my old, saggy one for his dorm room at Faith. 

Sam's MRI was Wed.  It went well.  They completely knocked him out and I was able to work on editing Will's final research paper while they did that.  Portable computers are a wonderful thing!  I got the results back the next day and his brain is perfectly fine.  So, we just wait on the Bell's Palsy to go away, I guess.  I've had several people comment, including Paul, that they think it has subsided a bit.  I don't know.  I don't really see it, myself, but he's with me all the time, so it's hard to say.

When we picked up Bella a week ago they told us to not use kitty litter for her for  two weeks because we had just had her declawed and it would be too rough on her healing paws.  So, we dutifully ripped up newspaper and filled her litter box with that.  I thought it was strange that the newspaper seemed to be staying awfully dry this week but was too busy and scatterbrained to think much about it.  Well, I got caught up on the laundry this week and discovered that she had been using my laundry pile as her litter box all week long!  Disgusting doesn't even begin to cover it!  I had to smell every single thing in that pile, pick up poop, re-wash the clothes in baking soda and vinegar.  She urinated on the carpet, which made the entire basement stink.  Ugh, ugh, ugh - THIS is why animals belong outside!  It was just odd, too, because she was so easy to litter train and has always been really good about using her box.  So I went out and bought the $10 box of scented litter, a scent thingy for her box, too, a pet odor removal disk for the basement, shampooed the carpet, and bought some Arm and Hammer pet odor vacuum stuff.  It's actually smelling pretty blissful now down there, so I think I got it taken care of.  Cat urine is just a nasty, nasty smell. 

Well, it's nasty when it's places it's not supposed to be.  It actually brings back fond memories because I think of when we would take our cat to her yearly visit.  Dr. Spay's office (yes, that was really his name!) always had this particular smell.  Of course, as a kid, I didn't realize that it was cat urine I was smelling.  I just thought that was a smell unique to veterinarians' offices!  This place I took Bella too didn't smell like that at all.  But they were burning a candle that they also were advertising for sale that is supposed to eliminate pet odor.  Apparently, it works.

This next week is going to be busy.  Monday, a couple of the boys have dental appts. I have my mom's group that evening.   Tuesday I have to go the chiropractor and Lizzie's therapist and then the boys have a softball game that night.  Wednesday I am going to spend in town all day, getting everything needed for the party.  Thursday, Ben has a physical in the morning for his application to Genesis and then that afternoon we are going up to Ames for his bocce ball tournament.  Friday I will spend getting ready for my 2 week shopping on Sat.  In between all this I have to be getting the house ready for the party.  I'd like to fit a hair appt. in there somewhere, too.  I really, really need to get up to City Hall and get some work done, too, but I think I am going to have to push that off until after the party.  I am not planning ANY outside appts. for the following week, but we'll see what happens.  I did have a lady at church volunteer to take the Littles for a day or two that week before the party and I definitely plan to take her up on that!

Oh, I think I have time for a rant before I close: it's now warm out (hard to believe that two weeks ago at this time we had snow!).  People are turning on the air and pulling out their summer clothes.  In fact, this week I actually packed away everybody's winter stuff.  Tuesday night I attended Ben's spring concert and it was the same old, same old.  The girls are told to wear dresses but what they show up  in - the vast majority, not all - is appalling.  They've got breasts hanging out, jiggling all over, skirts riding up to just under their buttocks, and all these chubby girls are wearing clothes that do not do anything to enhance their looks (not that skinny girls should be wearing stuff like that either!).  I don't blame the girls.  They're buying what's in the stores, what they see on tv, what their friends are wearing.  But I do blame their parents, who ought to know better.  One thing I have slowly deduced about the Pleasantville community is that it has a definite "trashy" element to it.  Obviously, that's not everybody, but the more I observe, the more I am concluding that it's probably the majority of people that fall into that category.  Of course, this is where pride can creep in, I suppose (thank Heavens I'm not like THEM!) and I have to guard against that.  And then Thurs. night I had to go to Walmart.  I went to the south side store, which, admittedly, is not a bastion of class.  But I just found myself getting crankier and crankier as I was forced, the entire time I was in there,  to look at women wearing super-tight tank tops (often plastered to their rolls of fat), cut off booty-shorts, and tattooed breasts jiggling out of their tops.  Eww - please, people.  If not for yourself, cover up for me!  I suppose I should climb off my self-righteous soap box about now.  But I just find it irritating, this year, more than ever before, for some reason.

Ok, I need to go cut Paul's hair.  I may be up a bit late waiting for that because he's outside working on the house and I definitely don't want to get in the way of progress!

Oh, Will is being promoted at his job, to cashier.  Moving on up!

That's all for now.  Well, I'm sure there's more, but that's all that made it onto my list.  Maybe I'll blog again before Will's party, but don't hold your breath.