Mom died 22 years ago this morning.
My father did not keep a journal, but kept a calendar with various jottings. For some reason, he started to journal the week that Mom took sick, and he faithfully journaled for about two weeks, then he stopped.
I have that journal, and was re-reading it this weekend, thinking that I might post a bit of it. But the tears came too quickly, and I realized that his writing was really meant for himself, and maybe for his three children.
Pop was not with Mom when she died, but was rushing there from the office. Everything was such a blur that day, since we all knew she wasn’t going to make it, and the mission office in Buenos Aires (they were missionaries) were already working on getting cargo space on a flight home for repatriation of her remains, plus getting him a seat on a flight, plus working on funeral arrangements.
He got the call that she was slipping away, and rushed to the hospital. He did see her after she was gone, and kissed her goodbye, and told her he’d love her forever.
I have some faith that they are now reunited somewhere.