Saturday, October 5, 2013

So, Stand Up & Hug Me!

Dear John,
 
I didn't vacuum. So shoot me. I was tired from the trip to South Bend yesterday. I did laundry, gave the kitchen a good cleaning, and did some general straightening. Father dropped by this morning to anoint me, which was so kind of him. And I talked to your mother this evening. After spending the day wishing I could talk to you, Mama, or both, I finally figured out the obvious solution.

Today I remembered the first time you were allowed out of bed in Indy. It was over two weeks after you got there, what with four trips to the cath lab in eight days, pacemakers, and V tach. You were so happy to be out of that bed! Your back never did get along with hospital beds. They got you up and settled and then left the room. The first thing you did was stand back up and call me over, so you could hug me. That was all you really wanted - to be able to really hug and kiss me. I remember how good it felt. We could have stayed there all day, if your legs hadn't been shaky from two weeks of bedrest. I remember the look on your face, too - you looked so happy. It meant the world to me, that having your arms around me was so important to you. And it means even more now, since we didn't get to do that for the last two months of your life.

You were always a toucher and a hugger, very unusual for your Midwest, German background. I never have figured out where you got that from. Of course, I'm both - I'm deep South. Where I grew up, we all kissed each other before walking to the end of the driveway to the mailbox, and again when we got back. But you and I were well-matched in that area. I was always glad, and never more so than on that day.

Thank you for that. It was the best way I can imagine for you to tell me that you loved me.  If you can do it again, I'd love it. I'd stand up forever if your arms were around me.

Love you so much,
Joan.

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