Three days from the last 16: Shock, grief . . . comfort and gratitude
Two weeks and two days ago, the phone on my nightstand rang at 4:44 a.m.
In a stupor, I reached for it, punching the wrong button, and disconnected the call. But immediately the phone rang again, and I read the caller’s name on my screen: Queen City Hospice.
In a flash, I suspected that Evelyn had trouble breathing in the night and they had administered oxygen. Hospice had been called for that problem a week earlier.
“This is Mark Taylor,” I spoke into the phone, holding it to my ear as I lay in the dark.
A monotone on the other end of the line responded.
“Mr. Taylor, this is Queen City Hospice. I regret to inform you that your wife, Evelyn, has passed away. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I sat straight up and shouted into the phone. “What?! What happened?!” I had been with her less than 12 hours earlier, and nothing indicated her demise would be soon.
The monotone responded. “She was found in her bed not breathing. I’m sorry for your loss. Do you want to see the body at Artis or at the funeral home?”
By now I was fully awake but not able to process the request. “How long will it be before the funeral home arrives?”
“I’ve seen it take 30 minutes,” the monotone responded. “I’ve seen it take two hours. I’ll wait here till they come.” The monotone had experience. “I’ll call you when I know,” he said. I decided he was my friend.
I thanked him; the call ended; I rubbed my eyes and wondered what I should do next. I looked at my phone and read “October 6, 2025. 5:00.”
What now?
“I guess I’ll take my shower,” I said to no one. As I was finishing, the phone rang, and the monotone told me the funeral home would arrive in about an hour.
“I’m on my way,” I answered . He was waiting for me in front of the building. He had the key code, and we walked through three locked doors to get to the building’s main hallway.
I went straight to the nurse’s office, seeking more information, but she had nothing new. Evidently an aide, during her routine “check and change” rounds, discovered Evelyn not breathing.
I preceded Jerome (the monotone had told me his name) to Evelyn’s wing and down the long hall to her room. How many times had I walked that route? I knew the way.
The sight of her body in her bed was familiar too. She was on her side, her legs pulled up almost in a fetal position, her arm at her side. I had seen her in this exact position dozens of times when I arrived in the afternoon to find her asleep.
Jerome left the room and pulled the door shut. A chair had already been placed at her bedside. Was he sitting with her when he called me an hour earlier?
I sat beside her and patted her arm. It was still warm. I felt for a pulse behind her ear and at her wrist. I remembered times before when she was sleeping so still I wasn’t sure if she was alive. But here the answer came certain. I brushed her bangs aside. I may have kissed her forehead. I hope I did. I was there only a few minutes.
I’m glad I went. I’m glad I saw her. But I’ll never forget the picture of her so peaceful and lifeless in her bed. It’ll break me every time I think of it.
An impossible desire
Two weeks ago, just two days after that Monday, I wanted to see her again. I wanted to touch her arm. I wanted to take hold of her hand as I had just Sunday, gently opening her Parkinson’s-stiff fingers to grip mine. But now her body was being readied for cremation. I had seen her for the last time, and I had to tell someone how that fact hollowed out my insides. So I called a friend who had reached out to me several times since Monday morning, and he agreed to meet me at 3:00.
The tears started the minute he closed his office door. I was overwhelmed, and I didn’t like feeling so totally out-of-control. I was afraid. And angry.
He just listened as I punctured the balloon and let all my confusion and heartbreak escape into the air. It had been growing all afternoon, but his kind quietness deflated it, and I was able to return home and be at peace alone.
His ministry to me that afternoon was a turning point. I’ve certainly cried, at least a little, every day since then. But not yet again have I felt so wobbly and weak.
Gathering, remembering
One week ago my refrigerator and pantry—and my garage, and a corner of my kitchen floor—were full of food church friends had brought. I had enough to feed an army. My family had arrived late the night before, and we would enjoy this buffet that afternoon before heading to the service. More family joined us after 2:00, and we were ready to head to the church by about 4:30.
The intervening days had been a flurry of phone calls and emails: notifying friends and relatives, dealing with details for the Wednesday-evening service, meeting and eating with friends. Our “Velcro daughter,” Wendy, came for the weekend, and it was good: sharing memories, enjoying a beautiful day at the Cincinnati riverfront, going to church together.
The visitation and service Wednesday evening was a balm and a blessing. It deserves its own post, probably next week.
For now, I’ll acknowledge that this journey has led me to unknown territory. There’s a lot for me to figure out as I make my way. But I’m so, so glad not to be wandering on the path alone. God has extended his grace in so many ways, and often it’s come through the hands and hugs of people close to him and close to me.
I’m grateful.
The video of Evelyn’s memorial service is available on demand here.
See the photo stream that played before and after her service by clicking here.