On a 'seemingly' ordinary Wednesday, I was working from home when my husband Stewy pulled up in the carport of our rural home at lunchtime. Normally he'd be swimming laps at the local pool during his lunch break.
Meeting him at the back door, a fearful tremor in his voice, he said, "Can you take me to hospital? Something's wrong."
On the 10-minute drive into the hospital, Stewy told me that nearing the end of his laps he lost power on one side of his body. As he got out of the pool, he dropped his goggles and realised he couldn't pick them up with his right hand. I asked him questions, told him to squeeze my hand, all the things they advise with 'What to do when you suspect a stroke. Every minute counts!'
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At the emergency department of our local hospital, Stew was given a CT scan which showed a small bleed on the brain. The doctor wanted him to go to the Gold Coast hospital and a Westpac helicopter was ordered. While waiting, I intermittently asked him if he had a headache, throwing him objects which he caught every time. Everything seemed fine, we chatted normally.
45 minutes or so later, he said he had a headache and within seconds, time stood still as I watched his whole body locking up. He was fitting.
"Help, something's wrong!!" I yelled out. Bolting over, the doctor and nurse asked him repeatedly, "Stewart, look at me, can you look at me?"
Stewy didn't look at the doctor or the nurse. Instead, his eyes locked onto mine. A look I will never forget.
After that, it was incredibly scary. I burst into fearful tears, "What's happening? What's happening to him?"
"We're going to put Stewart on life support, okay? We need to keep him stable. The helicopter will take him to Southport. Can you bring someone to the hospital with you?"
I went around to the family home and his mother and I headed up to Southport. We chatted normally. For some reason, I brought up my own mother's story when, at the age of nine, she died on the operating table from rheumatic fever. Mum had the typical near-death experience with spirit-like entities at the end of the tunnel, she wanted to go with them but was given a choice and she chose to stay. Maybe at that moment, I was thinking Stewy would choose to stay too if he was given a choice.
At the hospital we were ushered into a room with a neurosurgeon and counsellor and, like ripping off a bandaid, were told Stewy had experienced a catastrophic brain haemorrhage and it was extremely unlikely he would survive.
Dropping on the floor, the air was sucked out of me. I howled. We hugged and cried. Called family members.
After three agonising days on life support, Stewy was officially declared dead from a catastrophic brain haemorrhage caused by hypertension.
In those first few weeks, my soul group revealed itself and I've never felt more grateful in my life. We pulled together, our collective family and friends, sharing long lunches and stories, and organising the funeral and wake. It felt surreal.
After four weeks, I needed to get back to work and a normal routine. It was a distraction but hard at first. At home, I cried for hours, just working through the tears. On the days I came into the office, I was confronted with awkward sympathy and well-meaning 'Are you okay?' questions that I didn't want to answer.
I was told, 'You're so strong' or 'You're doing so well'. While highly unlikely I was going to reveal my true grief in public, hearing this made me feel conflicted. As if I wasn't showing enough grief, that perhaps I didn't love him enough.
Which brings me to the whole point of sharing my story. All of us know that at one point we will die yet we shove the topic of death aside. And because of this, many of us are totally unequipped to deal with it.
Joining a private Facebook community for Australian widows and widowers has been helpful for me. I've gained perspective about different circumstances that can influence grief. I've also read some astounding things said to widows or widowers. "Aren't you over it by now?" or "You need to move on" or "You'll find someone else." As if your loved one is as replaceable as a dining table or household pet.
Rampant emotions, an aching sadness but also undercurrents of guilt and regret. Regret for taking them for granted and guilt for those times you yelled at them for something stupid. Forgiveness has never felt more important to a grieving person.
Listen to No Filter where Rebecca Sparrow shares with Mia Freedman how we can survive and thrive after a great loss. Post continues after podcast.
Many Eastern religions ask that you focus on your pending death, it's not a bad compass for life. It's far less likely you will argue in the morning when you take stock, your partner may not come home that day. I'm thankful for not having one of those mornings that day – but what if I did?
The death of Stewy has revealed some other-worldly magic to me. I've had random strangers deliver messages from him. Strange synchronicities or signs have left me speechless. I now call him 'Ghostie'. Life has become more magical and meaningful.
With a need to know how he is doing, I've read countless books on the afterlife written by neuroscientists, philosophers, psychiatrists, mediums, doctors, historians and theologians, and even a private investigator. There are many common themes.
As torturous as it's been, I've learnt about self-love and independence, tolerance and kindness. I can appreciate simple moments. I'm also less afraid of death and more willing to truly, fully live.
For my final chapter, I'm going to give it my all and make him proud. So that when we see each other next, we share a huge grin and a slapping high-five.
This one's for you, Ghostie.
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Feature image: Supplied.