It has been a long time since I have shed those heart-breaking tears that accompanied me on a regular basis after David’s passing. While I grieve for him daily, I keep busy and find joy in my daily life – riding my bike, running, refinishing vintage furniture, starting a new job, spending time with my kids and friends, and more frequent visits to my elderly mother. Lots of stuff to do, lots of catching up on bits of life that faded to the background during our journey with ALS.

I read an essay recently from a mother who had lost her teenage daughter to brain cancer. She speaks of how cancer robbed her daughter of so much in her last weeks – personal agency, moments of dignity, mobility, and words – yet her daughter did not want to leave this world behind. And then the words “In her last weeks, I understood, viscerally, why washing someone’s feet is a holy act.” Yes, I could relate on so many levels. Despite David’s increasing difficulties, he too did not want to leave this world behind, and he especially did not want to leave me behind. And the feet. On Holy Thursday, as we engage in the ritual washing of feet, nothing can compare to the service of washing someone’s feet who cannot wash their own. It’s a complete act of love, kindness, and humility. David and I called them “spa days” – I would fill a wash basin with warm soapy water and Epson salts, soak his feet (and hands), scrub the dry skin away and trim his nails. Then a good rinsing soak, dry with warm fluffy towels and finish with some lotion before pulling on the compression socks that kept his feet from swelling. It was such a pleasure for us both. I loved the process of caring for him, making him feel good in this small way, while he allowed himself to take from me this offering. The taking of help – that was a tough one for David. He pushed the limits of his abilities until he knew it was no longer safe for him to do so. Only then would he accept the help I offered. As time went on, that help was everything. But David could still ponder questions of life and science, enjoy the flowering trees and buzzing bees on a spring walk in his wheelchair, and love fiercely and completely. In the early stages of his diagnosis, he never thought that would be enough as time went on; he learned later that it most defintiely was.

And so today I cry, those snot-inducing tears that well up from deep inside. Soon I will get my shit together to go on a beautiful bike ride and embrace the moment – to enjoy this magnificent spring-like day, to pedal my bike in beautiful places, and to be grateful for the opportunity. And I will honor David in the process.  

Love to all this Holy Week,

Mary