Quick Take
Claudia Sternbach wishes she had known last Valentine’s Day would be the last time she would get chocolates from her husband. This year he is too sick to go outside, let alone fill her red, heart-shaped box from See’s. His sudden cancer diagnosis and decline have left her remembering all the tiny moments of joy that make up a life. She reminds us to do the same.
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On Valentine’s Day, we have traditions.
Years ago, my husband, Michael, stood in a long line at the See’s Candies store in Capitola and splurged on a giant, red, heart-shaped box of candy to gift to me, his Valentine. He chose each flavor of candy to be stuffed into the box, focusing on rich dark chocolate, smooth, luscious milk chocolate with creamy centers, nuts and chews of various kinds. He spoiled me. He spoils me.
Along with being a sweet romantic, he is also practical. Every year, after the box is empty, he hides it away in his closet on a high shelf and then takes it back to See’s to be refilled the next February. I like picturing him in the long line holding my heart. Because he always holds my heart, but one day out of the year he shows the world, or at least the folks sharing the line with him, just how much he loves me.
I wish I had known last year that it would be the last time I received such a gift.
There are so many things I am aware of that will never happen again. Little daily life moments that I miss already.
I had no idea the last time we slept next to each other in the same bed really was the last time. I didn’t know we would never again curl up skin to skin under a warm, fluffy down comforter. Or that we would never stand together at the bathroom sink brushing our teeth at the same time. Or that we would never again sit at the bar at Manuel’s eating burritos and enjoying a margarita. So many things.
Please, if you are reading this, take a moment to appreciate the tiniest details of your day. I have learned that in those moments, there is love.
Previously
Michael’s world has become so very small.
Our friend Thomas built a lovely ramp for us at the front door so I might wheel Michael outside, but he hasn’t got the energy for even that short journey. He can see the backyard from his place on the couch, but he hasn’t been out there for weeks and weeks and I don’t imagine that will change. So, our evenings by the little fire pit have been snuffed out.
But he is still here. He is still Michael.
Last weekend his family came to visit. His two brothers, sister-in-law and mother. They offered to do anything I wanted them to do to help out. I just needed to ask. But my mind is so filled with so many strange new things to remember that I can’t even think what to ask.
What do I need from the store?
I don’t know.
What needs fixing around the house?
I don’t know.
Then they looked around and figured it out themselves and I am weak with gratitude. On their last night here, Kira, Dodger and Kira’s boyfriend, Cole, arrived and all of us gathered in the living room and spoke from the heart. Everyone took a turn expressing their love and admiration for Michael. Even Dodger, at 9 years old, spoke of life and death. Of how much he loves his Pops and how unfair this all is.
But, he reminded us that new babies are born and to make room for them, some of us have to go. And he likened it to riding a roller coaster and now, no matter how horrible it is, Pops is going to be getting off the ride and we will have to go on without him.
Please, if you are reading this, take a moment to appreciate the tiniest details of your day. I have learned that in those moments, there is love.
The room was crowded with people who love Michael. They spread it over him like a blanket of warmth.
And so, on Valentine’s Day, the day Hallmark or whoever has dedicated to love, I began the morning by climbing into Michael’s hospital bed, being careful not to hurt him. His body is so tender and I know I can only stay there for a moment. But the moment lasts. It’s going to have to last a lifetime.
I sink into it and know that at some point I will no longer be able to do even this, so I treasure it.
In the kitchen, I make coffee and reach for the milk in the refrigerator, but before I open the door I see the bright pink notice attached to it. It is surrounded by family photos. My grandson Dodger, the main subject. The notice is cheerful-looking, especially given the holiday. But, it is like a punch in the stomach every time I look at it.
It is bright pink to catch the attention of the paramedics if they are called to our house. It is a DNR, do-not-resuscitate order.
I glance at it and close the door. Then go and help my Valentine out of his bed.
