Walking Away

The hardest thing I’ve ever done was walk away from the hospital on that last day of your life. Each step toward the exit felt wrong, as if leaving meant abandoning you. I wanted to turn back and go to your room and take one more minute with you. One more moment before everything became permanent, but I kept walking as fast as I could because there was nothing left that I could change. You were already gone.

I forced myself through those exit doors without you. I left carrying a pain no one could see. I’ve taken countless steps since that last day, but my heart is still standing at your bedside waiting for you to come back to us.

The final kiss on your cheek is something I know I will carry with me for the rest of my life. You were lying there hooked to all those machines to sustain you so that you could give life to others. While I stood beside you, holding your hand, trying to understand how I was supposed to turn around and walk out the door. I wanted to believe I could be strong, but I knew the truth. I’d fall apart once I got to the car. I knew leaving meant I would never feel your arms around me again. I would never see your beautiful face. I whispered that I loved you and thanked you for loving me. No easy task. I memorized your face; every detail I could hold onto because I knew I was touching your hand for the last time.

Years may pass, but part of me died that day at your bedside too. The life I knew, that we knew, ended that day.

In just a few short weeks, we’ll solemnly mark 5 years since we suffered this tremendous loss. I’m still standing. I’m still struggling. But I know I am doing my best to be strong, walk forward, and be the person that you fell in love with standing at a party full of people where only you and I mattered on that first day we met.