January 21, 2010

It’s these things that matter . . .

Posted in Uncategorized tagged , at 1:36 am by letterstoelias

Lying in bed tonight, trying to fall asleep.  I can’t.  I think of how wonderful it would be to just reach out and feel your arm.  Just your arm.  It’s all I can do to keep from actually trying, only to feel the emptiness that awaits.  But it doesn’t matter.  It still hurts just as much.

It’s not flowers.  It’s not fancy dinners or dozens of roses.  Jewelry.  Not even chocolate.  The feel of your arm.  To fall asleep with your hand in mine.  To wake up to the feel of your lips on my forehead, then on mine.  To see  your fuzzy silhouette as we mumble ‘Good-bye’s’ and ‘I love you’s’ as you slip out the door for work and I drift peacefully back to sleep.

The feel of your arms around me when I break down and cry.

These are the things that matter.

How I wish I had those arms around me right now.


P.S.  I Love You



  1. Debbie said,

    You are so right, Chelsea. It’s the “little” things that now hold all the significance. I know exactly what you mean. I hope you feel Elias’s arms around you in your dreams tonight. Thinking of you today, like every day.


    • letterstoelias said,

      Thanks Deb,

      Today was a bit of a marathon between the girls classes, preschool and work – so I’m hoping I’ll be tired enough that I’ll crash easy tonight . . . we’ll see. It’s also easy to sound so enlightened about these things that really matter now – though I was never one to be fussed about the ‘other stuff’ anyhow and I’m happy that those were the things that were most important to me before too. I used to drive Elias a little crazy with wanting to hug for forever.

  2. Dan said,

    Hi Chelsea.

    You speak of what we all go through, probably every night. Some nights I am able to resist the urge to reach out, others I give in. I sometimes do feel comforted by my effort. It allows me to remember where his arm would be, how his face would be positioned, and so on. I suppose most times this is painful, but I still find myself there.

    I’m still on an online support group for brain tumor caregivers. One of the women in the group is having to watch her husband go through his final days. She was asking the group for support last night. All I could think of is to tell her to keep touching him. I told her to memorize everything about him, the feel of his skin, the shape of his arms.

    Wishing you peace.


    • letterstoelias said,

      Hi Dan,

      Your words in that support group couldn’t have been more true. I was once in an on-line forumn for brain tumour patients, which included many caregivers – but I have a much harder time being there now. It’s hard to know if they want to hear from someone who’s story ended up like mine (I don’t want to scare anyone), but having someone who understands on that level can be so valuable. I also found it increasingly difficult to see all the new people joining, and fearing for what they were to experience. It’s very courageous of you to continue on with the group and offer support. I, too, know of a woman who’s husband is now entering hospice and they are struggling with that balance of trying to live while preparing yourself for death. I’ve emailed to offer my support – it’s hard to know what to say (again, not wanting to scare her and also wanting to validate their hopes for him surviving longer than the doctors expect) – but perhaps I’ll offer your advice.

      I know sleep doesn’t always come too easily to you either – so I wish you peace as well.

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