Let Me Tell You About Honeymooning on Hospice

Honeymoons are designed to be sacred time away from the world as husband and wife start this new venture together.

We absolutely had sacred time. Our honeymoon also included family, hospice nurses, oxygen tubing, wheelchairs, spreadsheets, handwritten letters, and one man determined to finish being himself.

My husband, the one who always got to know everyone—from servers to customer service representatives—and always gave pep talks about their successful futures, continued being that man. He did it with the crew who delivered hospital equipment to the house and with the college student who came to sit with him so I could run to the grocery store.

He continued to pour life into other people.

He settled his business affairs.

He had a consulting job underway and continued directing instructions over the phone. He cleaned up files, billed customers, hired a Realtor, and sold a piece of land as well as his work truck. He prepaid his cremation and memorial and even argued over the price of picking up his body, insisting, "You could put me in a wheelbarrow and roll me the two blocks to the funeral home."

He had clients over to see him—not to say goodbye, just to visit—because he only told them he was on palliative care, and they didn't realize his time was so limited.

And he settled his home.

I heard him say so many times that he just wanted to take care of me. And he did.

He had the septic pumped and added insulation to the attic. We had plans to renovate the house together, so he went a step further by getting quotes on projects. He wanted to save me money by having the renovations completed at builder pricing, and he wanted me to have all the right people to do the work.

A month after he died, I started the renovations. I didn't follow his plan exactly. I went rogue on more than one decision. But because he'd done so much of the groundwork, by mid-December my home had been transformed.

I still like to think my heavenly control freak had a big hand in that.

He settled his family.

He reconciled broken relationships and spent hours telling stories while they were recorded. Sometimes those sessions went too long, and when I saw his exhaustion or felt his fever, I'd gently ask everyone to head home and come back tomorrow.

He wrote individual letters to everyone in his family so they would always have proof they were loved.

He passed treasured possessions directly to his children and grandchildren so he could be the one giving them away. He even included my grands, giving each of them an autographed baseball. He was only Grandpa Al for two months, but from the time we met he had been going to their ballgames, cheering them on, and building relationships with them.

My Alby had always done life on his own terms, and dying was no different.

He wasn't waiting to die.

He was on a mission to finish being Al.

He still told jokes and made everyone laugh.

He actually wanted a comedy show instead of a memorial.

Merchandise in the foyer.

T-shirts that read:

AL LIVE

...well, not really.

And then he settled my heart.

He had coffee delivered to me.

He sent flowers addressed to Mrs. Tisdall with a card telling me how much he loved me. He also sent flowers to two of my office friends, thanking them for being there for me.

Every person he talked to—contractor, nurse, family member—received the same assignment:

"Please take care of Kathy."

We paid bills together, him with his check register and me with my spreadsheet.

We held hands.

A lot.

We always had.

One night we kicked everyone out of the house so we could have one more date night together, snuggled on the sofa watching a movie.

When he could no longer make it back and forth to the bedroom, we slept together on the sofa for weeks.

One night, in the dark, we sang You Light Up My Life to each other.

Later, I found a picture of me sleeping on his phone.

I shaved him, cut his hair, managed his medications, and helped with his hygiene. He remained in charge and completely himself for the biggest part of this journey.

Cancer took his weight, his appetite, and eventually his breath.

It never quite took his grip.

When he finally agreed to move into a hospital bed, he was still directing traffic. I had to pull out a tape measure and assure him I'd already done the math and the bed fit exactly where we were putting it.

The rest of that evening he listened to all his favorite songs on his iPod, his hand conducting invisible symphonies in the air.

I slept on a footstool beside him with my head resting on his bed.

In the morning, he said my na+me for the last time.

Two months.

I'd marry him again tomorrow.