Life. Just life.

In 2003, in what now seems like a different lifetime, my family and I experienced the proverbial – and literal – year from hell.  In an eight-month period from February to October, my father-in-law died after a fall which resulted in a broken shoulder and a massive heart attack; my husband was killed in a horrendous truck rollover during wheat harvest; I moved after 34 years on our farm; and my dad died of a broken shoulder resulting in pneumonia, after a year-long descent into dementia.

As time progressed, I discovered that there is a thing called grief anorexia, but it would be a long time before I could put a name to it.  I did not eat or sleep, except what was necessary to keep me alive, and I steadily lost weight.  My mom, seemingly in excellent shape, had died suddenly of a heart attack eight years earlier at age 67, and from that time forward I was responsible for my dad’s care, as his health was precarious.  After both my father-in-law and my husband were gone, I also assumed full responsibility for my mother-in-law’s well-being.  She too was in the early stages of dementia and lived almost twenty miles away from me.  My dad was thirty miles in the opposite direction, so I burned up the roads checking on both of them every day.  I was simultaneously consumed with the process of settling four separate estates, so I lived with a phone glued to my ear and a FAX machine at my fingertips.  Life was reduced to a test of survival, although I did my best to keep a smile on my face for those who depended on me.

 Cue the knight on the white horse.  Sometime in the month of August that year, I was sitting at the keyboard during band practice at church when I noticed a tall, astoundingly good-looking man at the back of the sanctuary.  Turned out he had been invited by a mutual friend to play bass guitar in the band, and I spent the next eight months virtually ignoring him.  I had plenty to think about and much to do, was still in the throes of overwhelming grief, and was in no mood to make the acquaintance of a dangerous man.  

During those eight months, he and I didn’t exchange more than a quick “Hi, how are you?” as we passed each other in the halls at church.  But a couple of people I trusted were friends with him and despite my resistance I slowly began to take a casual interest in his general welfare.  As a result, on Wednesday night of Holy Week in April of 2004, I detained him outside after band rehearsal because I’d noticed that he had missed a couple of practices and wanted to make sure he was okay.  We ended up sitting in my car and talking – strictly talking – until 4:30 in the morning. 

Two evenings later, on Good Friday, he and another friend attended our Cantata, and afterward I found myself inviting him to my house for Easter dinner on Sunday.  He agreed, but only if I promised to let him do the cooking.

I’ve since heard it said that sometimes, in the middle of an ordinary life, God gives us a fairytale.  Within three hours of his arrival, dinner over, conversation flowing non-stop, we knew we would be getting married, and sooner rather than later. 

There were stipulations.  1) After close to 35 years of cooking for family and farm help, I had reached burnout stage and wasn’t interested in resurrecting the food line.  No problem – having been a foodie most of his life, even making his living at it from time to time, he preferred to handle all kitchen duties himself.  And 2), having lost three key men from my life in a very short time, I was reluctant to give my heart to another, so he solemnly promised not to “die on me.” 

Long sweet story short, on July 25, 2004, I became Mrs. Kim Smith.  He started making wonderful food for me every day, and the 98 pounds I weighed when I met him became ….. well ….... more.  

Fast-forward eight years.  My husband was working in the yard on Saturday morning, July 28, 2012, forcing a root feeder into the rain-deprived soil, when he felt a blow to the middle of his chest as if someone had slugged him.  Chalking it up to a pulled muscle and the 100° temps, he came inside for a rest, a cool shower, and some Tylenol, then proceeded to work at his job as Kitchen & Bar Manager at our local dinner theater for the remainder of the day and evening.  He did the same on Sunday, arriving home after 10:30pm, exhausted, silent, and still in pain.  

A Monday visit to the cardiologist revealed that Kim had suffered a significant heart attack, the upshot of which is that he had bypass surgery on August 2^nd and is now recovering at home.  He is rebounding well, thanks to a solid 40 years of racquetball, other physical activity, and good genes, and we are now starting to breathe easier after what was a sobering scare.  He will be off work for at least two months, and he does still require another surgical procedure for an unrelated problem that showed up during the heart cath, but we have crossed a monumental threshold.

My husband is a man of his word.  He has been my personal chef for eight years running and shows no sign of reneging on that bargain, although since I am now retired and he’s still working I step in as much as possible to shoulder that responsibility. 

And he didn’t “die on me.”  Thank you, God, he didn’t die on me.