I posted this in my journal seven years ago today, July 17th, 2008 at 10:53pm.  

The night was fairly quiet with several urgent pain injections to get through.

The day today was quiet also, but in a different way. There are no more long and wonderful conversations with Gwen. Her smiles are fewer and harder for her to do, and she’s getting confused more of the time. She’s fighting to stay with us, fighting to hold on, but there’s only so much she can do. God is in control and He’s working out His plan.

The day was spent holding her close. She wanted me lay in bed with her and that’s what I did. We held hands and each other tightly. As we lay snuggled, I watched the flickering of the candles that Andrea had placed on the dresser to provide a little sweet light and a nice fragrance in the room that Gwen likes. The flames danced brightly and with great vigor, leaping above the rim of the candle jar just a little from time to time. Then, one by one the flames died away, having spent themselves doing what they were supposed to do with all the vigor they could muster. It seemed fitting.

Gwen isn’t able to drink anymore, but can wet her lips with the end of a straw or a tissue. She’s the very sweetest thing I have ever seen. Her tiny 87 pound frame is lying here all wrapped warmly and snuggled in with blankets and pillows. She’s resting most of the time.

We still pray for a miracle of healing for her, a miracle that only God can perform. I don’t know if He will, but I pray for it with all my heart. Here she lies beside me, and she’s more concerned with what I’m going to do without her than with the pain tearing apart from inside. I would expect nothing else from her. Her breathing is steady, for which I’m thankful, and the nausea has stopped . . . another blessing. The pain is the biggest problem, but she’s also struggling with her memory–that troubles her.

The pain I feel is hard to describe, watching her slowly decline physically and mentally, and being unable even to slow it down. She looks at me with those beautiful hazel eyes and catches me by the heart every time. She can see into my soul, and with her loving embrace, everything seems okay . . . for just a moment. As I lay beside her with her hand in mine, our heads touching on the same pillow, my tears drip off my cheek onto her shoulder, and when she feels it she squeezes my hand tightly. For a moment, we’re just one person again; one person that cannot be separated by anything . . . except the final journey home.

Thank you all for your support and prayers and encouragements. We appreciate them very much.

Please pray for Gwen. She’s my girl.