Nightmare: Part Three

I am sharing things very few people know. I have held these thoughts and memories very close to me over the past 5 years and only shared bits and pieces to various close friends and family. I wonder if I am going to be sharing things I will be judged for. I worry that I will lose friends or family over this. However, after much prayer I feel that for me I must get these things out of my head. Because this is a hard topic for me to write about, I will be covering it in a few parts. I don't know how long each part will be. I will know in my heart when it's time to start and stop each one….

Writing Tony’s memorial… now that was hard. But I trusted in his faith in me to say the things he wanted me to. I had to do right by him. A good friend of mine had agreed to be the one to lead the memorial. How he made it through I don’t know. I was so grateful to him, still am.

Prior to Tony’s death this same friend sat down with Tony and helped him write letters to his son and our parents. I didn't get a letter. I got to type them up and make sure that they were delivered. I still have the copies. I don’t read them like I used to. I haven’t look at them in over a year. I don’t need to because I know he loved his son and our parents a lot. But mostly I don’t need to see them because I hear his last words to me when I need them most.

A week before Tony died I walked in to his apartment to bring dinner for mom and him. I remember when I walked in I was in a bad mood because of not being valued at work. Add to it that I had the least supportive boyfriend in being Tony’s caregiver and you've got me in a rotten mood. When I entered they were talking. Mom was sitting on his left side and they both turned to look at me. I put a very fake smile on and said “I brought dinner.”

Tony said, “Thank you.”

“Yep, no problem.” My standard reply to being thanked for anything. He’d heard that tone before. He knew me so well.

“No, I mean it. Thank you.” He pleaded with me.

“Yeah, I know.” I was setting the food down on the desk and not looking at him.

“Mom, make her understand. I mean it.” He pleaded to my mom.

With tears streaming down my face I went to him, “I know. I get it. There’s no place else I’d rather be. There’s no way I wouldn't be here for you.” I kissed him on the forehead and went in to the kitchen to sob. I never wanted him to see me cry over losing him.

You see, I didn't need to hear him tell me he loved me. I knew he did. I've known that all my life. He was my protector, my confidante, my hero. I have felt his love my entire life. I never questioned that. What I always questioned was did he appreciate what he’d been given, the bond we had, the blessing of knowing I had his back when he needed me.

In June of 2007 I was sitting in my car in my garage having a screaming argument with my brother over the phone. I had taken him dinner and even got him ice cream from Baskin Robbins. As I had left, I told him I loved him and I’d call him later to make sure he was okay. I had a volleyball game to get to and felt bad that I didn't have more time to spend with him. Instead of accepting or even acknowledging my apology for the rush, he gave me a list of things I HAD to bring him the next day. I was at the door when he said, “And don’t forget I have a doctor’s appointment that you HAVE to take me to on Monday.”

“I know. I've got my calendar. You know I won’t forget that.”

Hmmmm was all I got in return.

So I shut the door and said, “Asshole.”

He must have heard me because he called me on my ride home. In the space of the ten minutes it took me to get home he and I started what was to be our last blow out. He started out by reading me the riot act about how I was rude. Of course, I took the bait and blew up. I finally had had enough of his attitude towards me, that somehow I was his slave and didn't deserve to be thanked. By the end of the twenty minute conversation, he got my point. He understood that I didn't hate him or feel burdened by him. I loved him and that I wanted to be there for him. What I didn't want was to be taken for granted. I came to understand he was scared and felt that I’d hate him for this hell we were in. After that fight, we didn't fight again. He was much more appreciative of what I did for him. And I was much more aware of how scared he was to die, to leave us behind.

So that last “Thank you”, that’s what I hold so dear to my heart.  I know in my soul he appreciated everything I did. And that’s what comforts me to this day….

~ The Composer