Relinquish - His Second Chance

Chapter Six

'Grief never ends, but it changes. It's a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith. It is the price of love.'

Sebastian

Tears stain my eyes at Melody's letter, yet I cannot help but turn my attention to the one addressed to myself like an eager Beaver in the moving lake.

Yet I know I need to sit down now, moving through to the bedroom to sit on the bed as I rip open my letter eagerly with shaken hands.

Dearest Husband,

Sebastian.

Seb...

I'm writing this whilst you sleep with Melody tucked against your chest.

The pair of you both open-mouthed and snoring softly.

Our daughter takes after you, through and through.

She truly is a daddy's little girl.

I cannot fathom that once I never dreamed of this life you have given me, that I detested the thought of birthing Melody.

You gave my life a sense of hope, a sense of adventure and a sense of need.

I don't doubt you will remember the day and the events leading up to the day that changed your lives forever.

And I'm sure finding these letters lying bare for you to read will be somewhat triggering.

But these are my last words, my love, the last thoughts that I'll be processing before my time comes, and they will be our last memories together, so hold them dear... Could you do that?

Cherish them, just as you've cherished me.

And remember, Seb, in sickness and in health, those are the words we hushed to one another during our wedding ceremony.

A promise never to be broken, a promise that you have fulfilled.

Do not push away the memories of our time together, even the bad times like that day that will likely remain in history as the worst of our lives.

For, I remember the way you smiled as you held our daughter and played the classical music you loved so much as we rode in the car. Your upbeat thinking won over the thought that anything sinister was lurking inside of me.

Your cologne smelled strong in the wind as we walked up to the hospital after spending the day at Melody's favourite park. I had watched so avidly how you fed the ducks with her, smiling at her as she explored her surroundings.

You were consumed in her, radiant as any first-time father could be.

Do you remember the sound of your voice as we talked on the way into the lift that would take us up to that doctor's office where our lives were shattered?

I do, and those words will be ingrained as my last memories of your stoicism and support.

Those two words coming from the doctor's mouth were my worst fear, but they unlocked a fear that you had never let touch you.

I felt it in the deep of my bones that the diagnosis was coming, yet you looked utterly crushed.

It was then, in that office, as you held onto Melody, trying to hide your emotions, that I genuinely knew you loved me unconditionally, so irrevocably that my life felt... strangely complete.

For you see, I was lucky enough to find my soulmate before god called me home, and for that, I'll be eternally grateful.

I remember you reluctantly taking our little girl to look at the fish tank outside the dreaded room.

And most importantly, I remember everything that was, and that wasn't said on the way back home, but fear not, my love, your actions spoke a thousand words.

Do you remember remember getting Melody out of the car? I do; the sorrow in your eyes was soul-crushing as I watched you take her to our mother's, waiting in the doorway for news of how the dreaded appointment went.

I remember the sound of Melody crying that pulled my attention from you as you passed her to my mother.

But it was your actions after that, your need to come back to me, that made me feel whole.

I'll remember exactly what you looked like at that moment, and it breaks my heart every time I think of how hard you fought to remain my pillar of strength.

What I don't remember is most of the night that followed. Actually, if I'm honest, I don't remember the week that followed. I remember the steady stream of visitors, my tears and my guilt for not wanting visitors to come to our home, to invade the last hours we had with one another.

Especially not with the prospect of them treating me as if I were truly dying when I couldn't accept the fact I was given but months, if not weeks, to live.

Yet you remained my strength.

Our life turned into chaos, having a lot that had to be done, but I don't really remember doing any of it, yet somehow everything is planned, and all that remains are these words I wish to leave you with.

I was in shock, and so were you, my love, and I don't think that has worn off.

What followed that night and what I likely will never forget is the immense pain, the insurmountable fear, the all-consuming grief, the indescribable confusion, and mostly the heaviness that came with the realisation that I was going to be truly gone forever, and there wasn't anything I could do about it.

My time was running out; the future had no length.

I would miss birthdays, anniversaries, and Christmas'.

But most importantly, I would miss Melody's life.

And I would miss our marriage as I had planned.

I've learned a lot in the weeks that have followed, both from things I've read or talked about with other terminal people and my own grief, which has paved the way for yours.

For instance, I have learned that it is a strange and awful thing to have to learn to live without the people that you simply can not live without.

I learned you would be surviving upon my death. And endure you will, for the sake of our child if nothing else.

That as a father, your grief will be magnified by two because you'll grieve not only for yourself but for our child.

I have learned that in the face of tragedy, our community really comes together. I have learned that both of our families are some of the most dependable people I know; we'd be lost without them. Which forces me to remind you, please don't push them away; the pair of you will need them constantly.

I have learned that you have some of the greatest friends that a person could have, and that grief creates friendships that might not otherwise exist.

Lean on them, my love. Lean on your friends because they know, they've spoken to me.

They are expectant to support you, my love.

Anxiety engulfs me as I learn that I'll miss the little things. The sound of your voice when you're happy, the way you took such pride in our life, our evening conversation over wine, and the way you kissed my forehead before work each morning as you walked out of the house.

But more importantly, of how you father, of how you look at our precious girl as if she was the most expensive diamond one could buy.

I've learned that I don't want to be without you. I don't want to leave you a single parent, and I don't want you to be alone, but more than that, I don't want you to live your life alone.

Apparently, you'll learn it's exhausting being a single parent, especially through grief.

It'll be especially exhausting because it was never in your plan to be such a thing.

But my love, I ask you one favour.

Seb... remind Melody that I'm up in Heaven. That I love her, loved her. Tell her of my immense overwhelm when we found out she was to grace us with her presence.

I have no doubt your grief will start with denial, but don't mistake my love that it will soon become anger, bargaining, resentment, and depression... you'll need to experience all of these before acceptance will grace you. You'll be mad at me because you miss me. You'll bargain because you miss me. You'll resent me for leaving you because you'll miss me. You'll feel utterly depressed because I'm not by your side.

But then you'll accept your future, and I hope you'll find it in your heart to find another to love, and to be loved back. And more importantly, for Melody to have a woman to look up to.

But remember, my love, Melody should be extended those same emotions because she, too, will be enduring the same duress as you.

Bear in mind that although our infant doesn't understand what is going on or the magnitude of what she has lost, she will understand that something is different.

She will be fussy around five or six o'clock each evening and continues past her bedtime because I'm not there to tuck her in.

She'll wake during the night, often, actually. I usually rock her in the chair beside her crib.

She'll refuse to eat, refuse to leave your side.

She will depend on you for everything, for you are the only pillar for her to hold onto for the time being.

She misses me too, Seb and she'll miss me more as she ages because one day, those memories will fade, leaving her with only facts that come from you and our family.

This also hurts me so badly that I am not sure I could accurately describe the feeling of engulfment at the loss I feel for Melody.

My grief will be far from yours, but I've also learned that with grief comes longing. The longing for everything to be normal. The longing for everything to be as it once was, and the longing for what could have been.

I grieve for what was, but I also grieve for what should have been. I cry at the plans that we made, both for our future and Melody's.

My heart breaks for the dinners we won't have, the travelling that we won't do, the house we wanted to design, and the holidays we won't take.

I cry for the moments that you'll miss me, knowing I cannot aid you in washing away those feelings.

I cry that the first day of nursery, of high school and college, will be missed by me.

I cry about the future, of Melody's future, the wedding, and the eventual grandchild that we will likely have.

I also grieve the fact that I dreamed of growing old with you, looking back on our lives with joy and thankfulness as we greyed with age, and now you will have to do that without me.

Your life will never be the same, and that brings the questioning and misery of why god wronged us like this.

Grief is different for a multitude of reasons; grieving an older relative feels nothing like grieving a younger relative. And grieving a parent is nothing like grieving a spouse, but neither are sadder nor necessarily the same, but certainly different.

There are plenty of reasons for this: the unanswered questions, the guilt, the trauma, and the unexpectedness of the entire thing.

Not only that but when one dies the way I will, you'll find you are tied into my story in a way that makes removing yourself impossible. You are connected to my story in a way that you aren't with other types of death, my love.

When one dies from old age, no one asks you what happened or looks at you with shock at the news, and they don't ask you what went so horribly wrong as to have caused the death.

But when one dies abruptly after only a short time of private treatment, apparently, the close family will not be able to wrap their head around a death like mine.

As if questions won't be challenging enough in the moments following my death, you'll have to contend with Melody's continued need for answers.

I'm sorry, my love. I'm sorry I will leave you to explain such hardships to our child.

There will be plenty of questions, Seb.

Questions of your own, questions of Melody's and perhaps you'll never have the true answer, but you must push through the grief.

Make your way through the questions, even if you stumble your way.

Melody will need you to keep my memory alive because you knew me in a way that no one else had.

Knew the true me, the woman I was, the woman I wanted to be. The mother I strived to be for her.

You'll be able to recount my happiness in finding out she was to be.

Recount the birth, the sleepless nights.

Tell her of her birthday, her first birthday, with me.

Show her pictures, videos and her letters each year on her birthdays.

And someday, when she's older and asks more questions that you'll no doubt have no answer to, just remember my love for the pair of you and allow your memories of me to tell her how much I loved the pair of you.

Be the warrior you are, Seb.

Remember how hard you fought through any adversity shoved in your direction that made you the man you are today.

Remember to show Melody that it's okay to hurt and to fall apart but that she will never be alone as long as she has you.

That's how I feel now.

Sebastian, you are my rock, my strength and my world.

Right now, I am surviving on need, I can't do much more than that right now, but as I am grieving my loss of you, I am also learning that you'll grieve the loss of me.

Know this, Seb. Even though you couldn't save me or help me live for longer, I am eternally thankful for all that you have given me.

This life would have been less without you in it.

My happiness would not have started and ended with you.

I wouldn't have married, had Melody, or lived this extraordinary life without you.

Please forgive my early need to stand by our vows.

Til death, do us part, Seb...

Promise me that you'll find love again.

Promise me that you'll give Melody the mother she deserves.

Promise me that you'll live, more than you are living now.

I couldn't bear it, to know you'll be alone for the remainder of your life because of me.

I love you.

I love you so incredibly much, my love, that I give you permission to move on. To find another.

Yours always, Bethany.