I can handle a lot. I’m emotionally strong, and it takes a lot to get me weepy.
This past weekend, the hubbs and I were chatting about his mom’s sudden passing last year. How unexpected it was. How sad we were. And how she gave the two of us one last really good day … and how grateful we are that she did.
We were both talking about that horrible week last year. About her long battle with M.S. and his Step-Dad’s devotion to her. We talked about that week before her passing; her husband in and out of the ICU and then surgery, about our trying to figure out care options for her while trying to do our jobs, too. We talked about who was wonderful and supportive to us and who acted like a selfish jerk. We talked about leaving her house that last day and knowing, deep in our souls, that this might be it. That the end was coming and that we were not ready but that she was. We talked about that phone call the next morning, about making calls to others to tell them that no – he was ok, he’d made it through his surgery, but that we’d lost her in the process. We talked about planning the funeral, picking out a dress for her, and how grotesque it felt to choose a casket. We talked of our wonderful friends who opened their hearts to us and lifted us up in prayer and food and hugs and beer. We spoke of the absurdity of certain people’s behavior and those unbelievable moments of clarity when plans came together effortlessly, even when they shouldn’t have. And then I saw it. His head tilted ever so slightly to the left and he looked up at me from where he sat. I could see the tears forming in his eyes, and his resolve to hold them in. I saw those broad shoulders tremble and heard him take in a deep breath.
And then, simply, quietly, matter-of-factly, he put his head down and he cried.
That big-shouldered, hearty hunk of a man of mine let the tears flow. It was necessary. It was gut-wrenching.
And I was fine .. until he cried.