Walking through our 25th anniversary

It seemed right to go for a long hike on what should have been our 25th anniversary this morning. Jane and I loved to walk together. It gave us time to talk. It gave us time to think. It gave us time to heal.

I  made Jane a promise on our wedding day 25 years ago.

Our long walks together are one of the things I miss most since her death. Walking alone just is not the same–but it is something I try to do most days, nonetheless. Generally, it lightens my mind and eases my soul. When I’m walking I feel like I can think and see more clearly.

Turning a short walk to a long one

My plan this morning was to go about nine miles. I tweaked my left arch this weekend and, with less than three weeks between me and the Marathon Walk, I can’t afford another break in my training. At this stage, nine miles is a light day and my plan was to take it slow and easy.

Walking alone just is not the same…

But five miles in, my body felt pretty good, so I took a four-mile detour to the cemetery to visit Jane’s grave. I didn’t have the mums I bought her yesterday or the poem or card I’d finished last night, but I suddenly needed to be close to her. It is a thing widows and widowers understand–but no one else, really.

Jane and our 25th anniversary

Jane always doubted we would reach our 25th anniversary. She said we’d have to count in dog years. She said she expected to drop dead in her classroom with a piece of chalk clutched in her hand. I told her we were both in good health and–while I had some doubts about 50 years given how late we married–25 seemed like it should be easy.

…I suddenly needed to be close to her.

For most people who manage to stay married for a quarter century, that 25th anniversary is a big deal. They renew their vows, have a big party or sneak off to the site of their honeymoon for a romantic dinner and a night alone. It is a joyous time–a milestone.

Observing our 25th anniversary

I spent four hours and 15 minutes walking, made two trips to the cemetery and stopped at the bank and the post office. I had cereal for breakfast and fixed myself an omelet for lunch. Later, I’ll have a cold sandwich and toast my wife with a single-serving bottle of champagne.

She said we’d have to count in dog years.

The tears have come and gone all day. I expect they’ll be back again later–and likely more than once. Today was once the happiest day of my life. I looked forward to it every year. I’d spend weeks looking for the perfect gift, the perfect card, and writing her anniversary poem.

Our might-have-been 25th anniversary

Waking up on any anniversary was like waking up on Christmas morning. We’d be awake before the alarm, if it was on. We’d trade cards and gifts and Jane would read this year’s poem. Then I’d warm the chocolate croissants and make a pot of tea that we’d eat and drink in bed. We’d surprise each other with gifts and cards and flowers throughout the day.

The tears have come and gone all day.

Dinner was at a restaurant we liked, followed by a champagne toast at home and a quiet evening holding hands and snuggling on the couch.

The cemetery on our 25th anniversary

We loved each other–and I still do. When I leave the cemetery, I leave three soft kisses and four “I love yous” at her grave. I did that twice today. And now I sit in this empty house remembering our wedding day and the 21 anniversaries before her death–and all the other days we shared.

…any anniversary was like waking up on Christmas morning.

Three of our former students got married last week. Two others got engaged. Half a dozen celebrated anniversaries. But three other people I know died of carcinoid/NETs this week, creating new widows and widowers–people for whom no anniversary will ever be the same.

Promises made

I  made Jane a promise on our wedding day 25 years ago. I made her two others on the day she died. I do not give my word lightly–and I take my vows very seriously. I loved, honored and cherished her every day of our life together; I have continued to work to kill this disease; and some day, I will at last be able to begin to honor her final wish–to move beyond this most painful loss.