A Strong Heart

The days before Wes passed away were like a dream. 

Completely surreal.

 Completely excruciating. 

Wes's parents and siblings and I sat around his bedside for hours and hours at a time, talking and remembering.  There was laughter and joy along with the pain. 

A dear friend had loaned us a monitor to track Wes's vitals.  When our various conversations slowed, we would sit and quietly watch the numbers on the screen.

The lower Wes's oxygen level sank, the more we tensed and watched and waited and wondered.  But even as the number plummeted, he hung on.

"He's got such a strong heart!" 

I don't remember how many times that phrase was uttered, in sheer awe.  His heart worked at full running speed for days, trying desperately to oxygenate his body.  I can still feel the strong, rapid throbbing on my palm.

It was agonizing, of course, that feeling of his heart fighting for life. But now it seems to me the perfect symbol of his life. 

 A strong heart. 

Strong because it was soft (Alma 62:41).  And strong because it was conditioned by daily acts of kindness spanning all the years of his life.  I could give you ten thousand examples.  I'll just give you two or three:

When I was pregnant with Spencer, I couldn't breathe at night.  The doctor said prenatal congestion was common.  So I started the ritual of quietly waking up in the middle of every night to fill and drink a tall glass of water, hoping to quench the unquenchable dryness of my mouth.  Then one night I woke up and noticed a filled glass already on the night stand.  "Nice,"  I thought with a smile, drained the cup, and fell immediately back to sleep.  I forgot to thank Wes in the morning, but another glass of water was there the next night.  And the next.  And the next.  Did I ever thank him?  I hope.  Did he ever tell me to get my own dang cup of water before bed?  Never.  Just kept quietly filling the glass.  A group of friends sang The Lord is my Shepherd at Wes's funeral.  Tears filled my eyes when they reached that beloved phrase,  "My cup runneth over." 

During our marriage, I was never a great napper (I'm learning now!  fast!).  But sometimes, after long hours of work, or when I was sick with a migraine, Wes'd send me to lay down on our bed while he played with the children.  Sometimes I slept.  Most of the time I just closed my eyes and listened to the giggles of my little girl and boy in love with their daddy.  Inevitably, when the play got too rambunctious, I would hear the sound of gentle hands quietly pulling the bedroom door closed.  So the laughter wouldn't wake me.

Yesterday after church, my body wanted one of those undisturbed naps of yesteryear, but Spencer was crying for a push on the swing.  I put him off for so long.  I was tired.  I was selfish.  I told him no.  No. No. No.

But then I remembered Wes.  I remembered how a few weeks before he died, when even turning over in bed required significant struggle, he insisted I help him out of his wheelchair so he could sit on the floor with Spencer to play "fire monster." 

His body was weak, but his heart was strong. 

That memory pushed me to the sand, where I pushed our boy on the swing.  And Spencer laughed, and laughed, and laughed. 

I listened to him with love.  And hoped he (and I!) will grow to have his daddy's strong heart.