And so it begins

Victor Love, love of my life, passed away in the wee hours of the morning on July 27, 2021. He was 75.

This blog post will be about his death. I look forward to sharing the obituary tomorrow that will celebrate his life.

He had been declining oh-so slowly for the past several years, every year seeming to bring a new malady. 2010? Heart stopped in an Apple store. 2011? Squamous cell carcinoma on the base of his tongue. 2012? Swallowing issues stemming from the cancer. 2013? OK, not every year had a new malady.

Point being, getting older is not for sissies.

The malady for 2019 was another cancer on his tongue. This ended up with the removal of half his tongue that I consider the start of his eventual death. The surgery was hard. The recovery was harder. He had a feeding tube for a year and a half. He almost never felt “great” or even “good.” His emotional state maxed out at around 4 out of 10, with frequent dips in the negative numbers.

We made it through COVID-19 unscathed, but with that crappy tongue and throat (still suffering from the aftereffects of his radiation therapy in 2011—the gift that keeps on giving), aspiration pneumonia was always a threat. I lost count of the number of times he had it. And then there was the unspecified blood disorder. Every time Vic went to the oncologist, the oncologist talked about some numbers that weren't where they should be. He thought Vic had some sort of lymphoma or myeloma but nothing was definitive. The specter of this blood disorder weighed Vic down.

In February of this year, his heart started going downhill. Vic lost strength. Stamina. Balance. He really couldn't do anything he used to do—forget tennis or going to the mountains, he couldn't even walk Bella around the block or water the garden. More weight on Vic's already strained shoulders.

In early July, Vic got another aspiration pneumonia. I sent him off to the hospital, where he received antibiotics, but after only a few hours, he decided he did not want any more treatment. He was discharged to home hospice, where I was certain he would pass away in a couple of days—but as he so often does, he rallied. Maybe because his son was here, his sisters and nieces and cousins and in-laws paid him many visits, and friends popped in and out. Maybe he felt he had other unfinished business. Whatever the case, he came back from the brink of death for nine days. Nine days during which we were all able to tell him how much we loved him and he was able to live life on his terms—no more pills, no more being forced to eat or drink, no more nagging from me about using a walker.

But it wasn't to be. He took a nose dive the Sunday before he passed away. The hospice nurse said he was “transitioning,” which she said could last a few days, more or less, after which he would be “actively dying” (which is a gruesome phrase they should find a way to change) for another few days, more or less, and then it would be over. Well, it wasn't more. The next day he was actively dying, and within hours, he slipped away, peacefully, in his sleep at home.

I am heartbroken.

And yet.

We have a garden in the backyard. We planted flowers that attract hummingbirds, and they come every year about this time. For a week prior to his death, Vic had been watching the flowers bloom and hoping the hummingbirds would come so he could see them one last time. Alas, they did not. After everyone left the morning he passed away, I went outside to water the hummingbird garden. The minute I stepped outside, I heard it. A hummingbird. My first reaction was despair—stupid hummingbird couldn't have come one day sooner? But a wise friend said, “Let's say that it's Vic saying hi and that he's ok on the other side.” Just the words I needed to hear.

I started telling other people that story, and a few responded that they had seen hummingbirds that morning. I said, “Man, Vic is really getting around,” and that's when it hit me: Of course he is ... because he can. He no longer has a bad heart. He has regained his strength and stamina. He doesn't have cancer.

So yes, I am heartbroken—for me. But for him, I rejoice. He can go to the mountains. He can fly around visiting people. He can play ball with Wags at the Rainbow Bridge. He is free.

Before I leave you with the obligatory photos (just because I have a new blog doesn't mean I'm going to reinvent the wheel), I want to mention a few details that people have been asking me about.

DETAIL 1: We are planning a celebration of life service that will take place on Saturday, August 7, at 11 a.m., followed by a BBQ lunch—Vic's favorite—all at Howe Mortuary, 429 Coffman Street, Longmont.

As luck would have it, there is a parade that day, so getting to the mortuary and finding a place to park could be challenging. Please take that into account when planning travel time. Vic was a stickler for “calendar integrity,” which means “being on time” in IBM-speak. You won't be bored when you get there—we'll be playing a slide show with some of Vic's beautiful photography, and we'll have writing materials in case you want to share a favorite memory with me and Vic's family.

DETAIL 2: Memorial contributions may be made to the Longmont Humane Society, 9595 Nelson Road, Longmont, CO 80501, www.longmonthumane.org/donate/memorials-tributes/. (If you make a memorial contribution, they may ask for my address. It's 620 Rider Ridge Dr. Longmont, 80504. 😊)

As always, I thank everyone who has supported us over the years through all our trials and tribulations. If I am strong, it is because you have given me strength.

With love,

Patty

I'm sure it goes without saying, but these are all hummingbird pictures Vic took in our garden over the years.