Tag Archives: Death

Dying and Living

Light and free you let go, darling
You are doing this so beautifully, so easily
You are going toward a greater love than you have ever known

I don’t know who wrote this.  I wish I had.  But I’m glad that someone let these words flow out of them.

I don’t know what’s next for me after this lifetime.  I don’t know what Jody’s experiencing now.  But whatever it is, I sense it’s good.  My wife is happy and her essence is with me every day.

What if Jody has merged into a force of boundless love?  What if she’s being cradled by that love at every moment?  What if some form of her is waiting for me to cross over, so I too can experience that love?

Next lifetime, it won’t be “Jody and Bruce”.  How about “Chantelle and Pierre”?  And I’m perfectly willing to be Chantelle.  Or maybe our Spirits will explore a realm far from this physical life on Earth.  I’ve always wanted to fly.

What if next time there’s no “self and other”, no “Brucio and Jodiette”?  Maybe each of us is a single atom in an unfathomable celestial body.  Maybe my darling wife and I entwine in a spiral of joy in which “my love for you” and “your love for me” become … love.

I don’t know.  And isn’t that so true?  The mystery beckons me onward.  To open, open, and open some more.

The Fire Burns and the Embers Glow

Last night I sat down to watch one of my favourite movies:  The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.  As Lucy Pevensie hid in a wardrobe during a game of hide-and-seek, and then emerged out the back into a world of fir trees laden with snow, of fawns and beavers and witches and lions, the wonder on her face said it all.  Since Jody has died, there have been many vivid moments for me as well, moments of incredible intensity … crying, laughing, dancing, despairing.  Last night was another.

Lucy was magical.  She welcomed every newcomer with a smile that could light the world.  As she wandered through Narnia, the fire grew in me, right beside her.  The pinched nerve exploded in my left arm, in spasms that rocked me big.  Lucy, shooting pain, Lucy, pain …

And then Jody, talking to me:

I am here with you, Bruce.  I am always here with you, whether you are crying or laughing.  We will be together always.

I felt my hands move over my heart.  The agonized crying of hours before was gone, replaced by a peaceful communion with my beloved.  And a sureness that indeed Jody is always right next to me, holding me, loving me.  The peace permeated the pain and Lucy’s marvelous innocence.  They all twirled together.

You don’t have to look for me, Brucio.  I am here.  I love you dearly.

Don’t worry about what other people think, Bruce.  Don’t worry about what you may think about life after death.  I am here.  Love them all, dear one.  Light the world.

I know that there will be many times of sobbing in the future.  I welcome them too.  But the peace is pretty special.  Always with me.  My lovely wife.

Crying for Jody

Dearest friends,

When do I stop crying for my lovely wife Jodiette?  I don’t know.  I cried nearly every day in Cuba and now at home.  I’m crying right now.  I miss Jody so much.  She lets me know all the time that she’s beside me, and I feel her there.  But if only I could touch her, hold her hand, rub her feet.  I love you, Jodiette.

Part of me thinks that I should have dried up by now, but a wiser part respects a far deeper timing of love.  Oh my goodness, how can I write this e-mail?  But then, how can I not?  Oh life wife!  How I miss you.  It’s not that I need you beside you to make me whole and complete.  I’m just so sad that you’re not sharing the physical joys of this planet with me anymore.

(Long pause for tears)

Oh my dear.

I got home on Friday evening with really swollen legs.  When I left for Cuba, I weighed 165.  Once home, it was 185.  I sure didn’t eat that much food!  I went to Emergency in St. Thomas yesterday morning to get some relief and to rule out the nastiness of a new blood clot.  And I’m fine.

As I waited behind my curtained cubicle, attired in a resplendent back-to-front hospital gown, I broke down in sobs.  When the doctor came in to see me, she placed her hand on my back as I cried.  And cried.  She didn’t have to say a thing right then.  It was a precious moment.

(I’ve stopped crying now)

(Starting again)

How can I love another human being so very much?  It’s easy.  It’s natural.  It feels good.  And Jody deserves it.

One evening in Cuba, there was a street carnival.  Maybe 200 folks showed up to dance.  I enjoyed meeting up with some newfound friends from Sudbury, who were on Cayo Santa Maria for a wedding.  I also enjoyed getting deluged with foam.   It helped the legs slip slide away on the cement street.  After the festivities, I started walking home to the hotel.  In the dark, I missed a step and went flying forward, hitting my head, elbow and hip.  I lay there stunned for a few seconds.  The next thing I knew, Amy, Angel and Tristan were helping me get home.  As Amy supported me, holding my left hand in her right, I tottered down the road.  And then I exploded in sorrow for my wife.  Sobs upon sobs.  Being loved by Sudburians and loving my Jodiette … how marvelous.  Despite my pain and wooziness, the trip home to my room was an experience that I will remember for the rest of my life.  The Beatles were right … love is all there is.

***

Jody had a lot to say to me on the beach.  I expect that some of you believe that I’m just talking to myself, and it’s fine if you think that.  But that is not my experience.  Here are some words from my darling:

But I am with you, dear husband.  I’m holding you as you speak.  You so much deserve all the beauty of your resort.  I’m marvelously happy for you.  My blessings, dear one.

(More crying)

***

Don’t worry.  I’m not farther away from you compared to the first few days after my death.  It’s just different.  You’ve largely stopped crying.  And that’s okay.  You don’t love me a smidgeon less than before.

I’m interested in your meditation retreats coming up, especially the three month one.  What will that do for you?  It’s miraculous to even think about it.

[Yes, I’m going on an 84-day silent meditation retreat from September 12 till December 5, 2015.  I also wonder what I will be like at the end of it.]

***

How I miss you, my darling!  Your touch, your smile, your company.  I know you’re in some fine place, watching over me.

I am indeed, dear husband.  I am with you always.  I caress you while you sleep.  I kiss your mouth.  How I love you, Brucio!

***

We will never be apart, Bruce.  And someday our physical bodies will touch again.  Go love the world, Bruce … Go dance on the beach.

***

And so I did dance on the beach.  And had many conversations with people from all over.

This e-mail, along with a few others over the last month, has gone to two audiences:  you wonderful folks who have prayed for Jody and me since November, 2013; and the people who read my blog at brucearcherkerr.com.  There’s much more that I want to say about my time in Cuba, but that’s appropriately said on the blog.  Listen in if you like.

For you local friends, I hope that you’ll come to Jody’s Celebration of Life on January 31, 2015.  I’ll e-mail you before then with directions and no doubt a few more thoughts about my beloved wife.

I was disappointed that the announcement of Jody’s celebration didn’t appear in the newspaper as scheduled on Saturday, December 6.  It did show up on December 9 and 10.  Oh well.

I’m not crying now, but I know that the tears will return.  I love Jodiette too much for them not to.

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah.  May you and your loved ones be bathed in peace and love.

I love you all,

Bruce

 

I Welcome You Everywhere

Dear WordPress readers,

I’m sending this post both to you and to the many folks that I’ve e-mailed for a long time about Jody.

***

Dear ones,

Yesterday I had a bunch of errands to run – meet with the funeral director, get Jody’s rings cleaned, arrange for a plaked 24×36 version of the beautiful obituary photo, and go to the restaurant to discuss menu and room arrangements.  It seems that I needed a little spurt of busyness.

I started driving towards London and began crying.  I’m doing that a lot when I’m alone.  Somewhere on the highway, Jody talked to me, words that were astonishing:

It’s not just the big beautiful tree on Bostwick
I am all trees, Bruce
I welcome you everywhere

And I cried some more.  Trees passed me on the left and on the right.  Big ones.  Small ones.  A few with leaves, others with needles, and many with bare branches.  My darling wife was there with me all the way, everywhere I turned.

Words now fail me.  It is Jody … bowing to me, kissing me, clapping for me, and smiling.  I am so blessed.  I love you, my dear.  And as our nephew Jagger would say, “until the end of space”.

Last night, when I went to bed, I continued a tradition that is many years old:

Goodnight, Jodiette
Sweet dreams
I love you

And quietly I knew that these words would flow from me to Jody, in the dark of evening, for the rest of my life.  Just so.

I hope that you will allow me to express love for my dearest for a little while yet.  Gosh, this is two days in a row.  And I’ve let that be okay.  I’ll write some more after Jody’s funeral, and then after her Celebration of Life in January.  I’ll know when it’s time to bring our e-mail saga to a close.  I just checked back.  My first e-mail to you was on November 23, 2013.  A year of love.  And actually, infinitely more than that.

Since Sunday, you’ve written about 275 e-mails to Jody and me.  Thank you.  I would like to answer them all.  It would be good for me, and I hope good for you.  It may take me awhile, though!

I’m going to turn all of my messages into a book.  It will be called Jodiette: My Lovely Wife.  I’ll get going on it in February, I expect, working with the self-publishing aids available through the Blurb website.  I don’t want to sell this book.  My inner something-or-other tells me that’s not right.  I’ll be giving it away to anyone who’d like a copy.  May the experiences that Jody and I have shared be a gift to many folks out there in the universe.

Thank you for listening

My Wife

I woke up this morning, sat on the edge of the bed, and looked at the floor.  Atop a jumble of CD cases sat a little wine-coloured pillow, with “Love” inscribed on it.  I looked at the wall, where twin paintings of a forest scene hung above me.  I cried a bit.  “Jody, are you here?”  “In the trees, always watching over you.”  I cried a bit more.

On Wednesday afternoon, I went for a walk around the block, something I haven’t done in  months.  I realize now that for the year that I’ve cared for my lovely wife Jodiette, I’ve never left our home without the thought “Get this done fast.  You have to get back to Jody.”  And now I can amble.

Before Jody died, I asked her to send me a sign that she was all right.  As I walked along Bostwick Road, I saw a huge deciduous tree approaching me.  I have long admired this gracious creation.  Its branches fall so beautifully in a gesture of grace.

As we neared each other, I looked up, way up.  It was Jody.  “I will shelter you, Bruce.  I will protect you.”  “Are you happy, Jodiette?”  “Yes.  Can’t you see me waving to you?”  The tops of the high bare branches were blowing in the wind.  Thank you, my love.

I decided to go for a bike ride yesterday despite the temperature hovering around zero.  A bit of a wind too.  I thought I was so smart, bundling up in multiple layers, ear warmers, gloves and wool socks.  But gosh I froze, as I did my time trial route for perhaps the last time in 2014.

And I started crying.  I’ve never done that on ta-pocketa.  (That’s the name of my bicycle.)  And I couldn’t stop.  “Jody, my wife!  I miss you so much!”  Over and over again.

At one point, I could feel my fingers heading toward numb, and I was dead tired.  I had about eight kilometres to go and the sun would set soon.  “Jodiette, please help me get home.”  “I’m right here, husband.  I have your back.”  And she pushed me oh so gently.  Earlier I had thought I’d have to get off my bike and walk the rest of the way, but that idea now drifted away.  And I floated down Fruit Ridge Line.  Very, very slowly.  At Fairview Road, I stopped for traffic, and I couldn’t feel my hands.  I was crying.  A woman in a car pulled up beside me and asked if I was all right.  Her name is Laurie.  She had seen me many times on Fruit Ridge and wanted to say hi.  She offered me water.  She reached out her hand and shook my frozen claw.  I told her that my sweet wife Jodiette died yesterday.  We mourned together.

Soon I was home.  I stood in the kitchen, glasses all fogged up, and I tried to undo the clasp on my cycling helmet.  Couldn’t do it.  And so I stood, waiting for warmth.  Maybe it’s the same now that Jody has died.  I need to wait for what emerges.  Lots more crying, I’m sure.  Whatever comes my way, and whatever bubbles up inside, to let it be there.

Did I mention how deeply I love my darling wife?

Sorrow

Dear grieving ones,

Jody died this morning at about 3:00.  I woke up at 2:30 and heard little moans as she breathed.  I got the nurse, who gave her a shot of fentanyl for pain.  Soon the moaning was gone and her breathing sounded good.  I fell back asleep.  When I awoke an hour later, I couldn’t hear her at all.  I know that she died in peace.

What a marvelous human being, my Jodiette.  I miss her so much.  She always looked out for my needs first.  She saw the person that I am.  Sometime in the next day or so, I’ll write some more words to you about my dear one.

Jody asked that her funeral be a small one, just family and her close friends.  There will be a luncheon for these folks on Saturday, November 22, 2014 in London.  Sometime in January, we’ll have a Celebration of Jody’s Life.  I hope you’ll come.  The date and location will be announced in the “In Memoriam” section of the London and St. Thomas papers on Saturday, December 6, 2014.

What a privilege to have Jody Anita Kerr in my life.  And she’ll be staying there.  Thank you for loving my Jodiette.

I love you all,

Bruce

Near the End

Dear loving ones,

Since Jody went into hospital on Saturday night, she has been declining. The infection in her lungs has spread.  She was having pain with a deep cough on Sunday but a medication has helped to dry up her secretions.  Jody is mostly non-responsive verbally but she is with me as I hold her hand.

Jody’s doctor says that she may only live a day or two more. I know your prayers and love are there for my dear wife.  Please keep them coming.

As I sat with Jody yesterday afternoon, we had a conversation, a silent one. I know deeply that this was not just me talking to myself.  This was Jody and me.  I let go of her hand and wrote it down.

Jody: I’m going to fly.

Bruce: Travel well, my love.  We will be together again.  I will always be with you.

Jody: I’m ready, my husband.  I will have a doggie.

Bruce: Thank you for loving me so much.

Jody: I’m tired of this shit.

Bruce: You don’t deserve this shit.

Jody: You are my husband.

Bruce: I love you, Jodiette.

Jody: Take my hand, husband.

Bruce: May the road rise to meet you, loved one.  Oh darling wife.

Jody: Enjoy your life, Bruce.  Find someone else.  Be happy.  I know you will.

Bruce: You’re safe, Jodiette.

***

 Except for a few quiet “yeses”, Jody’s last word to me, as of right now, was “Bruce”, said in a tone of voice that told me “I’m glad you’re here.”

Later yesterday, as I sat alone with Jody in the room, I looked around … and we were certainly not alone. There were at least one hundred of you crammed into the large private room.  I could feel you there.  Jody’s bed is near the window, with her left side parallel to it.  Some of you were standing on the window ledge.  On the wall above Jody’s head, two fluorescent lights stuck out.  Several of you were sitting up there.  During the last few weeks, Jody’s head has leaned to the right.  On the left side of the bed, a line of you came to Jody, each of you planting a kiss on her left cheek.  The rest of the room, including a hide-a-bed and two chairs, was full to overflowing with you souls.  All of you were smiling.  All of you had your arms stretched straight ahead at eye level, forming a huge parasol of care over my lovely wife … and over me, I later realized.  Thank you.

On we go.

I love you all,

Bruce

Hearts Opening All Around Me

Jody was having trouble breathing last night.  I called 911 and the paramedics arrived quickly.  Once she had the oxygen mask on for a few minutes, Jody felt better.  She decided not to go to Emergency.

What a moment in time for me, to stay silent in response to Jody’s decision, while yearning to have her fully checked out in the hospital.  In the words of Shantideva, an ancient Buddhist sage, “It’s then that like a log you should remain.”  Jody gets to choose.

This morning, she once again was struggling for air.  And Jody chose ambulance.  I wondered as we headed down the road for the St. Thomas-Elgin Hospital if she would ever come home again.

It turned out that Jody has a lung infection with some fluid buildup.  Not the re-emergence of blood clots nor the spectre of imminent death.  Now she’s sleeping soundly beside me at home, with an antibiotic coursing through her, and nasal prongs delivering oxygen.  (Sigh)  Perhaps Jody’s time on Earth is short but this is not the day of leaving.

I am so blessed to have people stroll into my life, happy to be in my world. Today’s angels included:

1.  Two young paramedics, a man and a woman, both with big smiles, kind words, and funny words.  “The unbearable lightness of being”, as one movie was aptly titled.

2.  The resident doctor who smiled so fully at Jody and me.  She sparkled. And her words were wise, coming from a place far beyond her years.

3.  The emergency doc who first saw Jody a year ago, and both compassionately and assertively suggested that she may have cancer.  He was “with her” both then and today, showing me how the contact of the moment outstrips the content.

4.  The pharmacy technician who saw that I needed the antibiotic in a hurry, who saw in my fear the deep love I have for my wife, and who pulled strings to get me what I needed quickly.  Our eyes truly met when I said thank you.

5.  The respiratory therapist who saw Jody briefly in hospital and then came to our place tonight to comfort her with air and love, and who patiently showed me how to operate the equipment, returning to a task when she saw I was confused.  She realized that I was “gone”, and allowed her caring to flow.

***

Out of the woodwork they come
Out of their phone booths
Out of their skin

Last Time

I like those two words so much that I often use them as my user name on Internet sites.  (Don’t tell anyone, please.)  I realize that any given moment could be the very last time I see someone or something, I do something, I experience something.  We just don’t know.

Yesterday Jody spent many hours being disoriented.  She slept well, thanks to an increased dose of her sedative.  When she awoke this morning (with me lying beside her bed on a foam pad), I sensed that Jody was “there” as she asked for water.  I wondered whether this was the last time we would have an oriented conversation.  And so, I began:

“I love you, my dear.”

“I love you too.”

“I’m glad you’re my wife.”

“I’m glad you’re my wife … (smiles) … husband.”

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

To be so present right then was stunning and truly wonderful.  Oh, if only I could be this way always with everyone, not knowing if this time is our last.  I’m thinking of an old friend Linda, whom I palled (or is that “paled” – no, that’s not right) around with at the Prince of Wales Hotel in Alberta, and later in Vancouver.  We had such good talks.  Linda was the older sister I never had.  And then we lost touch.  Miraculously, years later, I saw her on the streets of Calgary and introduced her to Jody.  And then she was gone, and she remains so.  Was I present to our moment of departure from each other?  I fear not.

***

When will be the last time that I:

– ride my bike ta-pocketa?

– eat pumpkin pie?

– go dancing?

– write a post in Bruce’s Blog?

– walk in the mountains?

– tell someone I love them?

– sing a song and play guitar?

– sit cozied up in my man chair, reading a good book?

– set foot in my home … 6265 Bostwick Road, Union, Ontario?

– wear a t-shirt and shorts?

– say something silly?

– speak?

– shave?

– be on a beach in the Caribbean?

– drive a car?

– josh around with people at Costco?

– make love?

– watch “The Razor’s Edge” and “Titanic”?  (my two favourite movies)

– am with Jody?

– awaken?

***

The mystery unfoldeth

 

Lost and Found

Since bedtime last night, Jody has been crying a lot and angry a lot about what looks like oncoming death.  Such profound despair.  And such a natural reaction.

What can I do?  From way down inside comes “I don’t know”.  When Jody is lucid, I think my words make some difference.  When she’s not, all they seem to do is feed the flames of her anguish.  When I read to Jody, it seems that my voice soothes her.  And I brush her hair.  She softens then.  Last night, she didn’t want me to touch her, so I sadly withdrew my hand.  I tried to breathe in her pain and breathe out my love for her, but I was too lost to keep that up for long.  So I just sat beside.  I was in her presence.  She was in mine.

Often it feels like I’m being ripped apart, or disassembled.  What I’ve taken to be Bruce (happy, witty, determined, spontaneous) seems to be dissolving.  You know, that person, that separate entity walking the earth.  As Jody’s crying goes on for an hour or more, there’s a profound letting go in me.  Something remains after the personality fades.  I don’t know what it is.  I guess it’s okay to not know.

Do I need these moments of heartbreak to open to what’s next for me?  Perhaps.  It feels like a cleansing, maybe more like a violent dermal abrasion in that it hurts while it heals.

I love Jody so much.  At times like these, it doesn’t seem important what comes back from her.  It doesn’t seem like there’s much of a me for it to come back to.  Beneath my sadness is a big open space and immense quiet.  The intensity of my need for the usuals falls away: quality conversations, high self-esteem, physical comfort, getting enough good food, having alone time, breaking an hour for the time trial on my bike ta-pocketa, reading a good book.  Okay without that.

No movement away from the present moment
No deficiency
No needs