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The Last Commandment

“Oh Elise, I want you to live your life! To really live like you’ve always dreamed. Also to find a good man who will love you and take good care of you. I want nothing more than for you to be very, very happy.”

Steffan. My husband and man of 32 years who strode through life large and out loud; who left a rush of light and wonderment in his fun-loving wakes; who wore his courage big and bold - even when no one was looking; whose colorful zest for life, seemingly invincible, was fading to grey. He was dying. Cancer had divided and conquered.

His words were strained; spoken with sad effort. It was the day after Christmas - seven days before he left me, left this earth. Rare tears escaped him. His British staunch was melting as he stroked my cheek then laid my head atop his chest. My tears spilled down his gaunt ribcage, passing the port that had channeled enough chemo into his body to wipe out a small civilization. But had somehow been unable to halt this defiant disease.

The first weeks were autopilot. I was dazed. So much to do and be done. Steffan’s funeral - his farewell to life. I said my last “Goodbye for now, my love,” letting the long-stemmed red rose tumble onto his lowered pine casket as the drone of bagpipes hung “Amazing Grace” in the misting rain.

Then it was over. Just as the grass was taking root on his gravesite, life expected me to carry on and get my new roots about me. To embrace this ill-fitting life that now labeled me “widow.” So I worked, accepting the most difficult projects - ones that would absorb as much of me as possible. “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps!” I would rant to my heart, which nowadays resembled a watermelon dropped from an upper floor balcony onto an unforgiving sidewalk below. Splayed open.

So when our tenant’s lease expired on our East-Coast home, I told my Tribe, aka girlfriends, that I’d love to go back for a couple of months. Steffan and I had always said we’d return there. That home was a sanctuary, leaving the chaos of our West-Coast city life a continent away. Could it possibly offer me refuge? All alone?

When the words, “Why don’t you just move there?” flew from my friend Colette’s mouth to a chorus of concurring yesses from other friends, I countered with every reason why I couldn’t. I had to work; had our five-bedroom house stuffed with furniture and memories; and how could I leave my Tribe? What about my two sons, 23 and 25, struggling with the loss of their father? The flurry of “what if’s” trying to stop me from doing something alive, adventuresome. The very things that just might have been what Steffan had in mind on that final December 26th we had together.

As I sat at my desk jotting the pros and cons, I glanced over to the journal propped up next to my computer. The cover etched with what Steffan had wanted me to read. “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have always imagined.”

So I did.

I sent written notice to my landlord and booked a non-refundable first class flight for my two dogs and me. The movers and my car transport were scheduled. I called my Tribe to let them know my move date was January 9th - one year and seven days after Steffan’s death. Two days before what would have been his 54th birthday. I started a pile of personal belongings to take with me on the dining room table. Our home back East was fully furnished, so I needed very little. Finally, the last Thanksgiving to be held in our West Coast home was planned and invites sent out. Thursday we would give thanks; Friday the ads would post and the mother of all estate sales begin. The Tribe was standing by and ready for action.

On Black Friday, we began dismantling and selling off my last known existence with Steffan. Our couch, where we watched movies together or ate dinner as we became Judges #5 and #6 on “The Voice.” Our outdoor furniture where we sat on our hillside terrace drinking wine while overlooking sunsets that faded into the awakening lights of the city. Our four-poster bed where Steffan’s breath had ceased and heart had stilled. His fingerprints were everywhere and on everything. I was slowly erasing them.

The house became echoey. Little pieces of me tore away each time the belongings from our life were hauled out the door to become someone else’s. I was making so many decisions that moved me further from being “us” into a single, clumsy, exhausted “me.” Our woven fabric of together had ripped. Yet somehow mingled into the unravel were faint threads of excitement, the unfolding of what lay ahead. Of realizing that, “Oh my goodness! I am really doing this!” The looking forward to seeing my back-East friends and anticipation of new ones I would find.

Then on January 9th, I did it. For one last time I closed and locked the door on the life we’d known together. The house now sat empty and hollow. Wiped clean except for my memories.

Later I unlocked the door to my new life back East. I wearily walked into its open arms of embrace. A ‘welcome back’ to a known familiar that now offered me blank pages to fill with new chapters. It didn’t matter that it had taken me two full days to get there due to airline complications. I wasn’t bothered that all my luggage had been lost. My dogs and I had made it! My pillow dutifully collected my tears of gratitude as the three of us piled into bed that night. But East Coast tears were different than West Coast tears. They were brave and thankful. In time, my heart no longer felt splayed open. It began to slowly heal and find its new beat. Peace had bathed me. Hope had breathed into me. Sanctuary had embraced me.

My East Coast girlfriends? Well we just picked up where we left off. I’ve met the new friends I had always meant to meet, and am happily up for more. My days are alive with life. I have taken up flying again and am working to un-expire my pilot’s license. I joined G.R.I.T.S. -- Girls Really Into Shooting and have discovered that skeet shooting with these women is truly a blast! I kayaked down the St. Chariver without toppling. As for yoga, I’m a regular now and no longer a sporadic. My therapy dogs, Baxter and Bree, walk me two miles most days and we do outings to share laughter, fur and cheer at the local retirement home and hospital.

Days can find me walking hounds from the local hunt club through the backcountry or perusing farmers’ markets, antique and consignment shops. I host impromptu supper parties; am writing my first book; cooking while sipping wines from our local wineries and spinning LP’s on my record player. Sometimes even dancing along, spatula in hand. At day’s end I sit on my deck to watch the fireflies dot the woodland around me to the cicada’s serenade. I feel as though I am living in a magazine article. 

When I look in my rearview mirror I see the me who was so afraid to let go. Aching to hang onto a life that no longer existed. Steffan and I had planned to grow old together, but now I am a solo. I can no longer borrow his courage. I’ve had to dig deep to find my own.

Mornings now awaken me with fresh floods of gratitude. For my Tribe who knew what I needed even when I didn’t. Girlfriends who in the middle of the Christmas season set aside their shopping and busyness to encircle me and make this move happen. For my family who swallowed that bittersweet pill of seeing me go, and exchanged tears of sadness for tears of joy to cheer me on. 

And someplace, somewhere Steffan is cheering me on. He left me with a gift. His "Last Commandment." Yes Steffan, I am happy. For I am living the life I had always imagined … and even more. I just wish you were here so we could share it together.

P.S. As for that good man Steffan mentioned? He’s out there somewhere waiting to meet me. We just haven’t been introduced quite yet.

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