Tom was a musician. Music was very important to him and we spent a lot of time together because of his music, particularly during gigs. I've found that since he's been gone, he speaks to me through music. A RuMoRs' song (or three in a row) on the radio--I spend a lot of time in the car listening to music, the one song that he sang with the band that he would dedicate to me (Color My World, by Chicago). I keep the car well stocked with tissue. Recently I drove his car to my acupuncture appointment. On the way home I decided to turn on the radio. It had been a while since I had driven his car with the radio on (at least three weeks). The station that I last had on seems to have changed programming and a song I had never heard was playing. I was immediately drawn in by the melody and then, quickly, the lyrics. The song is "Like I'm Gonna Lose You" by Meghan Trainer with John Legend. As soon as I arrived home I googled the lyrics and just knew that this was a very special song. As I read them, I could so deeply relate to our relationship and it made me very grateful.
So I'm gonna love you like I'm gonna lose you
I'm gonna hold you like I'm saying goodbye
Wherever we're standing
I won't take you for granted
'Cause we'll never know when, when we'll run out of time
The last months of Tom's life, our marriage, which was already rock solid, deepened in a way that I never imagined. Going through a life and death health crisis can drive people apart or closer together. We fell more deeply in love, were more deeply committed to each other and were grateful for every second together. As our friend Dave said at Tom's memorial, we had more than a marriage, it was like a blood pact. I remember very distinctly, as we continued to receive bad news about his cancer, as Tom lamented that he couldn't seem to catch a break, his oncologist saying to us "But you have each other." That we did. We were in lock-step. We were a team. His job was to fight the cancer, my job was to fight for him, including fighting his medical team when necessary. I have no regrets about how we spent his last months. I know that we did everything that we could, that we loved deeper, held each other longer, laughed harder and drew on each other's strength. He knew that I had his back, that he was the most important thing in my life, and I knew that he was fighting with everything that he had to live his life to fullest for every moment that he had. There were several precious moments during those months. Moments of tenderness, moments of fear, moments desperation, moments of joy, moments of frustration, moments of humor (lots of those), but mostly moments of love.
We never talked about him dying. It hovered in the background, just outside of the reality. The thought unspoken. The fear unwhispered. I felt like I was walking a tightrope, not saying what should be said. I believed then, and believe now, that he desperately needed me to keep believing. And I did. To quote another song, this one by Journey,
Don't stop believin'
Hold on to that feelin'
I hold on. And on. And on and on and on and on.
