The Vanity Plates

 My late husband’s car bore a set of vanity license plates that few could decipher. Two words spelled: “M-Y T-H-O.”  (My Tho). He had to pronounce it for me: “Me Thoe.” I stopped calling them vanity plates when he told me it was a small place where he had been stationed for a while when he served in Vietnam.

It was a leap for him. He hadn’t talked much about his time in Vietnam and I never pressed him. When he got the license plates, he told me about his experience coming home from the war. It was 1969 and he was required to travel in uniform. When he landed back in the States it was very noticeable that no one greeted him. When he looked at people, they would avert their eyes. The only eye contact was from those who returned his glances with hostile stares. The message was clear. He was very unwelcome.

After he got out of the army, he disposed of his uniform and tossed his ribbons and medals, wanting nothing to do with the service. I believe he felt betrayed. He was exposed to nightly mortar attacks, the occasional sniper, his position was overrun in the TET Offensive, he was exposed to Agent Orange, and no thanks came from his fellow citizens.

It was about 40 years after his return when he began to be more open about his service. It took fellow Vietnam veterans to greet him as they recognized what was stamped on the car tags. Then he donned a 9^th Infantry Vietnam Veteran ballcap and began to hear “Thank you for your service." He gradually reacquired the ribbons and medals he had earned and began to write about his experiences in the Army and Vietnam. I believe more than anything, he wanted his son to know and to feel the pride he had felt in uniform.

Among the military records I requested and received was the notice he had been awarded the Army Commendation Medal, but no reason was given for it. I never knew he had received it until after his death.

By the time he died, he was 100% disabled due to Agent Orange exposure. I watched him slowly waste away. I buried him in Leavenworth National Cemetery with military honors. It was the last “Thank you” for the honorable service he gave his country.

I lost track of the My Tho plates. They were probably disposed of at some point when we downsized to one car. Now I wish I had them. I would display them with the pride he regained, and the pride I had always had in him.

The Relentless Grief

As I write this, it’s been 196 days since my husband’s death. It still feels like he just died. There has been no break in the grieving process. It’s relentless. I don’t like euphemisms that call what happened anything other than “death”, “died”, or “dead.” He “passed” or “went home” minimizes the stark reality of his endless absence. There is no way to soften it. Any attempt to do so doesn’t lessen the grief and sometimes makes me angry. Just call it what it is. 

I tell myself people mean well and that there is an awkwardness, a not knowing how to speak to me of his death. I can’t fault people for that. Unless a person’s spouse has died, they cannot begin to understand. And even then, they cannot truly comprehend my grief, nor I theirs. The grief process is unique to everyone. No one can tell me how to grieve, how long to grieve, or when and how to show grief. I have intentionally distanced myself from people in my life who are toxic to the process with their platitudes, or worse, impatient expectations. I have to in order to survive, and hopefully heal as much as is possible living without my husband.

 I know this with absolute certainty: I will never be the same. My life is forever changed. How it will all play out, I don’t know. But I am required to get up each day and face his absence, sleep in a half-empty bed, and live in a solitude I wasn’t prepared for even though I knew his death was imminent. Death is a shock whenever it comes. The heart and soul are never ready for the death of a loved one. There is no escaping this grief. It just is. 

The Firsts

I'm struggling to put my thoughts on paper. I'm trying but this will be an unformed, disorganized stream of consciousness. I'm too exhausted to focus.

Yesterday would have been Will's 77th birthday. It was a difficult day. They all are, but this was more so. My sister came over a bit and I was distracted for the duration so the pain was in the background. She's also a widow and has been through all the firsts. 

Then I spent an hour beginning the organization of Will's writings for the book he had been working on before Alzheimer's took away his ability to focus. Now his desk is covered with piles of papers. I knew when I began the preliminary shuffling it would stay that way for an indeterminate length of time. I don't know when I will be able to do any more than what I did. But it was something I could do for my late husband's birthday. There was no birthday greeting from me, no hug and kiss, no carefully chosen gift for him. 

Yesterday was the first of the firsts. In less than a month will be our wedding anniversary. It would have been our 37th. I have no words. I don't believe there are any; maybe never. 

There is Jesus

The curser has been blinking at me for an undetermined length of time. I stare at it, close my eyes for a bit, and when I reopen them it's still there, blinking in the same spot. I'm struggling to put my thoughts down and it's not happening. The physical, mental, and emotional fatigue is overwhelming. The few sentences just written have taken almost a half hour. 

I don't know why I'm even trying to write. The normal desire to write is absent. It's not writer's block. It's a creative lethargy, as though all the soul energy has been drained from me. A haze has descended and I am groping for words. My few thoughts are scattered like car headlights as they try to pierce fog. This must be a manifestation of grief. It's showing up in various ways: the inability to engage in meaningful conversation, difficulty making decisions, however insignificant, and an empty-headedness crudely attempting to block the realization I will soon be very alone. 

It was suggested I'd feel a little better after vacuuming as if grief can be neatly sucked up and deposited in a trash bag to be put at the curb. I'm just scratching at the surface of grief. I know it's deep, frighteningly deep. There is a precipice I don't want to fall over. But I have an inkling there will be little I can control in this process. It makes me think of the Joni Mitchell song, The Circle Game, to be "captive on the carousel of life...and go round and round and round in the circle game." There is no escape. There are delaying tactics, avoidance, and shutting down, but no escape.

I think this is going to be a long, difficult journey and I'm dreading it. I'm afraid of it. 

But there is Jesus.

And he promised to be with me unto the end of the age. 

A Life Well Lived

Will has gone home. It's been five days since he passed. I can't decide if the days have flown by or dragged. I only know I'm exhausted and so very grieved. I'm still running on autopilot to a degree. I have allowed myself times of weeping, but there is so much to do. There must have been a time of simple death, with only the wealthy and powerful having death rituals requiring planning. Now, death is an event to plan for no matter what your station in life. Were my son not with me, I'd be overwhelmed. 

There is so much I could write, but my mind is struggling to put words together. I will just leave you with Will's obituary. 

William Paul Howard

Obituary

 

William (Will) Paul Howard, 76, went home to be with the Lord on Saturday, February 17, 2024, after a prolonged illness. He was preceded in death by his parents Leonard and Mary (Hart) Howard. He is survived by his wife, Susan Arlene (Hover) Howard, son Matthew William Howard, and siblings John Howard, Connie (Howard) Gross, Tim Howard, and CeCe (Howard) McGuiness, as well as numerous in-laws, nieces, nephews, and cousins.

Will was born August 2, 1947, in Kansas City, MO, his lifelong home.  He attended Bishop Hogan and Southwest High Schools. He went on to earn his GED, an Associates Degree from the Metropolitan Community Colleges, and a Bachelor of Arts from Ottawa University, where he graduated Magna Cum Laude. He was a Professional Member of the Missouri Addictions Counselors Association.

He enlisted in the United States Army in 1966, first serving with the 3rd United States Infantry Regiment, The Old Guard. He served a tour in Vietnam from 1967 to 1968 with the 9th Infantry Division, achieving the rank of SP5 as an artillery sight repairman. He was Honorably Discharged in 1969.

Will wore many hats throughout his professional career: soldier, jeweler, certified substance abuse counselor, assistant to the director of the Kansas City Rescue Mission (Shelter KC) and Commissioned Lay Pastor of St. Matthew Presbyterian Church before entering full retirement.

He married the love of his life Susan on October 3, 1987, and they were married for 36 years until his passing. Together they brought their beloved son Matthew into the world on September 13, 1989.

He had many hobbies that expressed his creativity and left a lasting legacy. He was a self-taught musician who played bass, Irish flute, and mandolin. As a craftsman, he carved his own Irish flutes and fashioned cigar-box banjos. He took a course in sound engineering and recording from Chapman Recording Studio and produced albums and recordings of live performances for local musicians. Will and his wife Susan, a singer-songwriter, produced several albums together in the late 80s and early 90s. He was also a painter, using watercolors to capture beautiful landscapes—often based on his photographs. His greatest love was photography, at which he excelled, capturing poignant photographs through the years. He received honors for a photo taken in Vietnam displayed in an exhibition at the Springfield Museum of Art. He was also a published author, writing about his war experiences.

Will’s Celebration of Life will be Sunday, March 10, 3:00 p.m. at the South-Broadland Presbyterian Church, 7850 Holmes Road, Kansas City, MO 64131. Interment will be at a later date at the Leavenworth National Cemetery.

Contributions in Will’s memory may be made to Bomb Techs Without Borders. This small but capable international non-profit is dedicated to removing explosive remnants of war from the world. They have been providing training and assistance to Ukrainian explosive clearance agencies since 2022 and publish free guides and references in use by bomb technicians around the globe. It was founded by Will’s son Matthew, of whom he was justifiably proud. (www.btwob.org)

 

The Last Breath

 I'm exhausted. The past twenty-four hours have been a whirlwind, yet paradoxically unfolding in slo-mo. Will is under round-the-clock hospice care now. They do not expect him to live past the weekend. It happened so suddenly. One day, very weak, yet still talking and even cracking a joke. The following day, going comatose. Our son had to carry him from a chair to the bedroom. Some of Will's last words to his son were his concern that he not hurt his back carrying him. True Will. Always looking out for others first. He lost consciousness and has not regained it. Twenty-four hours have passed and he shows no sign of anything but the slow descent into death. 

Tuesday, while he was still able to talk, I asked him what his favorite bible verse was. He struggled to think and I suggested he not try to come up with the address, but tell me the gist of it and I'd find it. His face brightened and he said, "Do unto others..." (Luke 6:31). I fought tears because it was the perfect verse to sum up his life. Will has always lived by the "Golden Rule." 

From his time in Vietnam taking care of his buddies, his integrity as a jeweler always careful to give his best work for an honest fee, to his days working with the unhoused men, addicts, and mentally ill while employed at a rescue mission. He cared for them. They weren't scary or smelly they were children of God made in his image and Will treated them with kindness, dignity, and compassion, judging none. He knew most of them by name and would greet them on the streets. His final service to God and people was the years he filled the pulpit at St. Matthew Presbyterian Church, ministering to an aging church. He was loved back just as he loved them. 

His life was full of far-flung experiences. Though he received hard knocks and lived through broken relationships, and difficult circumstances, he held fast to faith in a loving Lord and knew his service was not in vain, but in a sure reward. In his 60s, armed with only a GED, he earned a bachelor's degree in Human Services, completing his life's focus. 

When he breathes his last, he will be received with the words: "Well done good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of the Lord." And I will be forced to cling to the knowledge of his reward and joy knowing I'm left behind to do life without him. I'm hurting because the time is close that he will be taken away from the bed we have shared for nearly 37 years. His frail body will be cremated and his ashes buried in a VA National Cemetery with military honors. I will give the flag to our son who also served in the Army. 

People have been coming over to the house to say goodbye to him. I know they need to. I've been assured the last thing to go is the hearing, so he's hearing how loved he truly is. I have spent time telling him I've always loved him. But I've also given him permission to let go and go to the light. That we will be okay. I want no regrets. I want him to go in pure peace on his way to see his Lord's face. 

My heart is breaking. My son's heart is breaking. Yet we have agreed to be strong for each other. The time of private grief will come. Then the work of living without him will begin. The ache will always be there, but gradually better memories than the prior few years of decline from Alzheimer's will make it more bearable. 

Life continues and it will be up to me what I write in the book of my life as I go forward. I pray I, too, will be remembered as one who did unto others what I would want done to me. I cannot think of a better legacy to honor my husband and our Lord. 

Courage to Face the Day

 As I write this, my heart is heavy. My husband is drawing closer to leaving this world. I don't know how much time he has. It could be a few months, or sooner, or perhaps longer. But he's not eating anymore. He's skeletal and frail. He is in hospice care and has visits every couple of days with a nurse and a home health aide. A social worker and a chaplain visit monthly. I'm so grateful for the extra care being provided. It means he can stay home. 

I'm on autopilot. His needs are paramount and I want to be sure he's comfortable knowing he is loved and cared for. I want no regrets. There is no time to grieve or fall apart. I need to be strong and so far, God has kept me going on little sleep, and a not-so-good diet. It's hard to eat well right now. Cooking would take me away from him and he's not eating whatever I make. When I do eat, it's generally snacking on comfort foods.  

I can no longer leave him alone. So I do all I can by digital means. Grocery shopping and other needs are delivered. I sometimes do leave, though. One brother comes on Sunday mornings so I can go to church where I find comfort and renewal. One friend has offered to walk the dog for me, which is a wonderful gift. Poor Murray has been consigned to only the backyard for his outdoor time. 

Our son is coming home for a month in a few more days. He will take care of some overdue home maintenance for me, and my husband will be buoyed by his presence. I'm so looking forward to having him here. Together we will make some hard decisions and talk about a different-looking future.

This isn't what I thought my life would be like. Then again, I don't know that I had a specific vision in mind. Just growing older together. I must now do life alone. 

On Epiphany Sunday, my pastor handed out paper stars that had a single word on them. Each star was different and we didn't know what we would draw. The one I picked had "Courage" on it. God is amazing. When I feel weak and tired, when I begin to fear the future, I look at my star and remember the Source of my courage to face each day. And just as the star guided the Magi to the King, I'm being guided by the Light of the world. I'm not wandering aimlessly. There is a destination, a glorious one.

I don't know when my husband will take his last breath. Then there will be so many things to attend to. The business of dying goes on for a while after that last breath. But the day will come when I will find the space and time to grieve. For now, I stay focused on the next need, and the Lord walks with me; now and then carrying me. By God's grace, I will stay strong and take good courage.