Just You and I

(content warning: this story includes references to domestic violence.)

As a cradle Catholic, I always knew you needed your faith to do what needs to be done to get to Heaven, however when I was a young adult, I didn’t put much thought or action into this. I was drinking, going out to clubs on a Saturday night, making it home around four to five in the early Sunday morning and forgetting to go to Mass. In my defense, I would have gone if my head didn’t hit the sofa pillows, and my fluffy pink throw didn’t somehow make it half way on my body. In the back of my head, I always knew once you get to a certain adult age, you quit all the foolishness, running around with whomever, whenever. Reluctantly, limiting your sins is what you did to get right with Jesus. A lot of my friends put their faith aside, some decided to lose it on purpose. I saw their lives from the outside looking in and it didn’t appear so bad. My mother always warned me, “if you don’t stop that foolishness, God will stop you” Deep down I knew she was right, but I ignored it just for a few more moments. 

A few unmonitored moments turned into a few years then I met a man by the name of Mark Benjamin. He was dashing at a stocky five foot, two inches tall, dark hair with a touch of gray at his temples, semi droopy dark eyes with an elaborate set of verbal skills that would melt the cheese right into your egg and bacon taco. He eloquently spoke with his encyclopedic words with a touch of street lingo. He would literally give you the brown flannel shirt off his back. On one cold afternoon, coming out of the grocery store right where the warmth of your surroundings turns into the wintery air from the outside, a young man in his late teens to early twenties suffered a seizure and dropped directly in front of us.  Mark right away took off his brown flannel shirt to use it as a pillow. He held the hand of that young man so his mom could contact the ambulance. Mark watched him have that thirty second seizure all while whispering “You’re going to be ok. It will pass.  All this will pass.” Mark always used those words it was his life mantra. Once the ambulance arrived, we stepped aside so the medics could do their due diligence. The young man’s mother picked up Mark’s shirt, presented it to him “Thank you for your kindness sir.” 

Mark was no stranger to strangers. He spoke and interacted with everyone. This must have been where the first attraction was, other than the looks. Both of us being Leos, it was a bit difficult at times, but we made it work. Our personalities were strong and equal.  Things were unlike what I was previously used to in my relationships. Mark was fourteen years my senior. Being twenty-four never felt so good until it felt like pain.

Mark promoted me from girlfriend to wife in a matter of moments after meeting me, although he always told me a marriage doesn’t mean a piece of paper. I never knew how to be a proper housewife and Mark had some outmoded ideas of what our lives would be like.  I stayed home while he worked. I was expected to be at home and not leave. I persuaded myself to believe it’s not all that bad. No children, just me, alone, until the evenings. I remember the early hours of September 19, 1997, when he came home drunk, which was something he often did. It was my understanding that real men did what they wanted and to hell with the women who are left behind. This is the part I have always wanted to forget. I simply can’t forget. I define these moments as deep life stains. There were so many stains.  This one in particular went like this. I was furious that he would leave me home by myself as he went off to have a good time. Weren’t we a couple? Weren’t we supposed to go do things together? For an aging vato stuck in the 1970s lowrider-esque era, I guess not.  Besides, he told me we were married, he didn’t need a piece of paper. This was an accepted absurdity on my part. I didn’t let him enter the house. I questioned his whereabouts, his cohorts, his actions and his excuses. He violently replied with a right hook to my face. Falling down on my back I hit the concrete steps leading to the back door. I screamed. This was just the beginning. Crying for mercy, he grabbed the top of my hair and threw me to the ground, I landed face down with a mouth full of small pebbles and dirt. I planted my palms on each side of me to get up, his steel toe boots smashed my left hand.  Screaming for him to let go, he was equally screaming, “You will never question me again!  Do you hear me?” He then made sure I heard him. There was no more Angela in me, but there was plenty of Mark left in him. I made it to a kneeling position; he picked me up just to throw me down again. After, he went inside to go to bed. I used my good arm to army crawl into the house, like a slug leaves its slime trail, I too left my trail of blood. I pulled myself slowly and made it to the bedroom. My adrenaline was quickly diminishing, I made it to the closet door and closed my eyes.

“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU!” Mark yelling at me. I couldn’t move, my body was sore. My natural reaction was to open my eyes properly, but I couldn’t. 

“Angela, what happened to you? Who did this to you?” he asked. 

“What?” I replied in disbelief. 

Right away he put both arms under mine to pick me up from the floor. 

“Stop you’re hurting me!” I replied loudly.

“I’m sorry baby, I’ll get you to the bed,” he answered. 

On the wall above the dresser was an oval mirror. I saw the reflection, but I didn’t see me. I saw Mark assisting someone. If you looked from afar, it appeared heroic. Someone carrying a physically depleted person from battle. I could feel his very muscular arms around my body guiding me to the bed. Who was that lion? The black and purple swollen forehead gross fully protruding, a smashed large nose covered in dry blood, two black eyes, the whites of my left eye red, several gash lines on each side of my face. The purple handprint across my neck with several pronounced bruises covering my chest. The distal phalanges on my left ring finger will never go straight again. The blood covered poor defeated lion in the mirror was me. 

Mark laid me down on the bed. “How did this happen?” He sounded genuine.  Crying, I immediately replied hatefully, “It was you! How could you do this to me?” “But it wasn’t me! I would never hurt you… I love you!” he replied.  

My tears just gushed out like the destruction of a dam. Instantly my head started to throb, my body ached, I wanted to go home. I didn’t want to be there. I needed to stop crying because I ached, but I couldn’t help it. Mark put on his emotionally driven medic uniform to collect all the first aid supplies he could locate. He came back to doctor me up. I never went to the emergency room. He allowed me to sleep the rest of the day. I slept for about ten hours. I still remember the reflection of the defeated lion, the sting of the alcohol he used to erase the blood stains to my upper body, the look of regret on his face. If you didn’t know us, you might call the scene a romantic one which the man comes to the rescue of the woman he loves. I called it venomous. To this day when I stretch out my left hand extending my fingers, all comply except the deformed ring finger. 

Don’t get me wrong, Mark wasn’t a two or three times a week violator. He was more like the debt collector, trying to collect once a month. I remember another time much later in our “marriage” when we started arguing about who we are, where is this relationship going, I’m going to leave… the normal threat. I started to ask questions he wasn’t too keen on answering. He headed out the door with his truck keys. So what would any respectable battered wife do….follow him…yep right out the door into the front yard. My mother would call it por cabezuda, which translates to basically hardheaded. I would call it toxic at its finest. Out in the yard, we argued for all the neighbors to see. He finally got tired of listening, so I got violently pushed into a Y shaped tree. Falling backwards my left leg was caught between the branches that formed the Y shape. I turned my body to catch my fall.  Many years later, I sprained my left knee exercising, the doctor asked me how long it took for my torn ACL to heal. It was plain as day on my MRI. Eyes wide open!

So let’s get back to coming to Jesus. I am a firm believer in Holy Water. I keep it everywhere. I have used it twice to save my life. One night Mark came home drunk, again. I was angry, but not lion angry. I went into the kitchen to confront him about his responsibilities. Right away he put his hand over my mouth and told me, “Go…get to bed and get comfortable, I’m going to whip your ass when I get in there.” 

I acted as if I wasn’t scared, but inside I was scared and trembling. I went back to the bedroom, used my time to quickly and frantically search for the bottle of holy water. I quietly opened all dresser drawers, moving all its contents, panicking that I wouldn’t find it. I knew Mark would destroy me for being a smart ass. Quickly, I looked in the night stand drawer and there it was. I placed the small one-ounce plastic bottle I got from San Juan Basilica in my hand, turned off the lights to act as if I was asleep. I could see the lights from the kitchen from under the bedroom door. I then saw the lights turn off with footsteps approaching.  Mark opened the door to the bedroom and walked towards me. I could barely make out his face in the shadows. Instantaneously I took the holy water, poured some in my palm and recited, “In the Name of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit leave me alone!”

Mark froze. A sinister voice exclaimed, “Don’t put that stuff on me!”

He then plunged into the bed. I laid there in the bed and prayed. I knew enough to know, spiritually speaking, I couldn’t continue this. Not only was I living in sin with a man who didn’t want to marry me legally, but I couldn’t even pretend it was my best life. This had to stop. I prayed for God to save me. I prayed for my confused cluttered mind, I prayed for the intelligence that I was obviously lacking. I looked out the window to the sky, begging for life. I saw a plane and wished I was a passenger on that plane. I cried in silence; I didn’t want to wake him. I just laid there gripping the holy water tightly.

After some time went by, we looked like a normal couple. We didn’t have children together. We could always do what we wanted. We didn’t require much money, small grocery lists would suffice, going out to dinner with friends was what we did. We went to breakfast at a small diner. We bickered about something, but for a while I refused to look at him. 

“Babe, it’s not my fault,” he whispered. 

I turned around to see his smile, he was pointing at his plate. Ordering waffles was part of his plan all along. The man cut out a letter “A” in his waffle. I couldn’t help it, I started laughing. He smiled and said, “A for Angela, A for Angel, A for Asshole that I am.”

  Sometime later Mark took me to Sacred Heart Catholic Church, in front of The Blessed Mother statue he kneeled and asked me to kneel beside him. He vowed right there, in front of Our Lady that he would never beat me up again. I believed him because at that point it had been over two years since our last episode. 

“I want to marry you, in a catholic church,” he said. “I want you to belong to me and I want God to bless us.”

During the course of a year, he had one-on-one appointments with Father Raphael in order to fully prepare us to get married by church. When November 2008 came, I was ready to be married. It was the traditional Mexican wedding complete with a mass, the mariachi band singing the mass, the reception, with the mariachi band playing during the course of the dinner, and the dance. Even when the mariachi band left, we kept singing mariachi songs. 

When the court of honor took the spotlight to be introduced, they walked into the hall to the song, "When a man loves a woman" by Percy Sledge. However, when the new Mr. & Mrs. came through, you would think another romantic song would play to express our love. Nope, we walked in dancing, through our own Soul Train line, to "Lowrider" by War. We had a blast! It was many years since the first time we became a couple. To me it was worth it. 

Later that year, Mark decided to register for RCIA classes (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults), those are the classes one takes to either 1. Convert catholic or 2. Make the sacraments you didn’t when you grew up. He had never made his first communion and confirmation.

I felt as if our past was just a really bad nightmare. Mark was completely different. He kept his word to me. It seemed as if he was trying to make up for our lost time. Saturdays were always the same. Mark did yard work while I cleaned the house. One fall Saturday, Mark went to rake the yard. The raking was necessary because we had two huge pecan trees and some smaller trees that towered over the roof of the house. Inside I turned on the stereo to some good house cleaning music and went to town.  

“Babe, come here please,” he requested.

“Ok one second,” I replied.

I went to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water. I knew he would be thirsty. I made my way out the back sliding doors through the patio into the backyard. 

“What are you doing up there?” I asked curiously

“I want you to see something, come climb up this ladder.” 

I wondered what he wanted to show me. He climbed down the ladder, so I climbed up. “Please hold the ladder, don’t let me fall.”

He responded with a smile, “Now look to your left.”

“Oh, wow!” He had actually raked all the leaves into the shape of an A-N-G-E-L-A. I laughed.

“It’s because I love you, Angela!” Mark said with smile overload.

I felt it. Right away I climbed down to get my phone for a photo. I took two photos of the yard. This man here, loves me enough to rake up the leaves to shape my name. Yep, how many can say that? 

He was always doing little things to make me smile. Buying corn dogs at the pier in Galveston, he used the mustard to spell out my name. Or when we went to the art supplies store, he used the test markers section to draw my name onto the blank drawing pad.  Mark had a talent for drawing, and he used it on my name. He certainly was the love of my life.

One day we were discussing children. We were not getting pregnant. We never used protection nor was I on contraceptives. We decided to go seek medical assistance. After many tests, labs, and exams it was determined I could never conceive. I was diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome. My body didn’t make enough hormones to conceive a child.  This would explain the lack of menstrual cycles and those cycles that would last into the next month.  After the last doctor’s appointment, Mark took me to the church. We both kneeled in front of the tabernacle. In front of God Himself, I sobbed and begged Him to give me a child. I continued to explain how everyone was having children, those that are much younger than me. I went on to explain how I wanted to leave a legacy. When I should pass, my wish was to be surrounded by my children and grandchildren. The best compliment I could hear was someone telling my children, “You look exactly like your mother.”

How I wanted that more than anything. I was so hurt and devastated. All I did was cry and try to speak clearly. I prayed, “Please Father in Heaven, Please don’t forget me. Please don’t forget to give me children.” I put my head down so no one would see my face. Mark put his hand on my shoulder to console my tears. I understood if it’s not God’s will for me to have children it just wouldn’t be. I had to make peace with that thought in my heart. After about half an hour, we went home. I left the church with a touch of hope.  

As good as life is, it can change quickly and dramatically. About a year passed by when I heard Mark say, “Babe, I need to go to the hospital.”

I reached for the lamp on the nightstand to turn it on. I found Mark laying down on his side of the bed with his hand pressing against the right side of his abdomen. He was the never-go-to-the doctor type. His joke about his ailments was “Just walk it off.” I knew it in my gut, if he’s asking to go to the emergency room then it’s serious. I jumped up to change, put my hair in a ponytail. Mark, on the other hand, could not move so easily. I collected his sweats and a t-shirt to assist him in changing. 

We drove down to the hospital. Mark was triaged right away. It was 5:30 am September 8, 2010. He was quickly administered pain medication, which took effect right away. Mark once again was calm. We talked all day, laughed about events in our past. I made fun of him saying this was his extensive plan to get out of work while he made fun of my fashion sense, considering I put my shirt on backwards and inside out, a double whammy. 

“Babe,” he said in a low somber tone. “I just want you to know I love you, I always loved you.” I knew it right when he started speaking that something wasn’t right. What was going on?

“I’m sorry for ever putting my hands on you,” he said while his eyes looked down in shame. This was not the time to argue, to make corrections or to confirm what he said. My faith taught me, this was the apparent time to listen, but most importantly, to tell him that I loved him very much. It would be a few months before I would say the words, “I forgive you.” But I did, I just wouldn’t say it at first. 

“I’m going to find some coffee; I need to wake up,” I told him. 

“Ok, I’ll be right here,” he responded.

Dejected and sorrowful, I sought out solace and found coffee to gather myself.

All day we conversed extensively, even played the, “If I won the lottery what would I do,” game. We kept each other occupied. The nurses would come periodically to ask for more blood work, a specimen here and there, another round of imaging. Mark complied. I could see the seriousness in his face. Mark was gifted with a significant amount of will along with an abundance of determination. In retrospect. he made the promise to never get violent with me again, he also promised to give up drinking entirely every other year for a complete year. Everyone was surprised, but of course there’s always that one person tempting him with money so he would drink.

“Mark, I’ll give you this fifty-dollar bill if you drink with me.” They proposed.

Mark politely responded, “Yes, I need that money, but no, I won’t accept your challenge.” He referred to those dry years as his boring years then that big smile on his face would project like sunlight. He always had the biggest most fun smile.

            “Mr. & Mrs. I’ve been overseeing your complete evaluation, I’m the doctor on call here at the hospital,” the doctor informed. “Let’s go sit in the conference room, follow me.” The doctor appeared to be concerned, which freaked me out, but I kept silent. 

“Please have a seat.” The doctor pointed at the seats, he then sat across from us at the table. 

“Is this the results of all my exams?” Mark asked.

“Yes sir, let me explain our findings,” the doctor responded. 

The rest of the time was a blur in my memory. We were told Mark had stage four liver cancer. Due to his bilirubin being so high, it was suggested our options for combatting the disease were few to none. My heart instantly broke into a million little pieces. I bargained with God. “Please don’t take him from me.” I could see it in his face, Mark was doing his own bargaining. A lot of our memories came to the front of my memory bank. For example, deciding to go to Galveston to fish at 10:30 pm on a Friday late evening. Then watching the sunrise come up from the 61st pier the next morning and feeling gratitude to God for the thoughtful creation of spectacular beauty. On the way home, Mark contemplating if we should stop at the local grocery store seafood department to pick up the biggest fish and conjure up the greatest tale of fish defeat. Or the time when we picked up searing hot French fries at the drive through and drove away. In order to cool them down, I opened the small bag of fries placing them out the window to cool just for them to get blown all away. I admit it, at times we were plain run of the mill weirdos. 

The first oncology appointment consisted of what we feared the most. No hope. 

“Mr., we are going to review your tests, we will call you tonight with the results,” the nurses told us.  

We got home and continued our everyday routine. We prepared dinner, set the table and ate. “Angela, I want you to promise me something," Mark said.

“What?” I replied. 

“I want you to promise me you will never get with anyone like me, not even my friends.  I want you to get with someone that will buy you things I couldn’t, to get with someone who will take you places I couldn’t, I want you to have a life I couldn’t provide for you, but mostly I want you to get with someone who will never hit you.” 

I looked down to cry. I rushed out the room, I didn’t want him seeing me ball like a baby. The phone rang just in time to rip us from that grievous moment. 

“Hello.” Mark answered the phone on speaker so we could both hear. 

“Mark Benjamin?” the caller asked. 

“Yes, this is me,” he confirmed. 

“I wanted to inform you about your test results,” she said. “Your bilirubin has tripled since the day you presented to the emergency room, which was five days ago. This cancer is fierce,” she exclaimed. 

Mark cleared his throat the speak. “Let me ask you, just tell me plain, how long do I have?” 

The caller hesitantly proceeded, she also had to clear her throat, then after five seconds she answered, “about six months to a year I would say.”

“Ok thank you very much.” He hung up the phone. “I want to be left alone for a few minutes Angela, if I can please.”

“Of course,” I responded. We lived two houses down from my aunt so I ran to her house, my cousin was there I grabbed him. “He’s dying!.......Mark is dying!” I hugged my cousin hard. He reciprocated while I screamed, “Mark is dying!”

My cousin whispered, “I know mama, I know, you will get through this, I promise.” He kissed the top of my head, “I promise.”

            The next day Mark and I saw a commercial for a hospital that specialized in cancer treatment. It wasn’t in town, it was in another state actually. “Let’s call them,” he said. 

I did what he told me. Within a weeks’ time we were boarding a plane Arizona bound.  We arrived at Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix. At baggage pick up, there was a man wearing a chauffeur type uniform holding a sign which indicated the hospital name as well as our last name. Mark and I both looked at each other to hold in the laugh. We were escorted to the limousine. On the way to the hospital, we witnessed magnificence, the mountain ranges were so majestic, very appealing to the peaceful senses. The scenery was very unfamiliar to us from flat Houston. 

The hospital campus was gorgeous from top to bottom. The lobby greeted you with light gray carpet, color matched large sofas with recliners. A light brown brick accent wall with fireplace and wood mantel. A service desk, entrance to a dining hall with huge coffee and infused water urns. In the background there was a violin player playing for guests, a baby grand piano down the hall you could play whenever you want. Down the main hall there was a pharmacy, across the pharmacy was a store and gift shop attached to a coffee shop that specialized in natural smoothies, the hall to the right included offices and lobbies fit for all your medical appointments. We checked in at the service desk while our luggage was shuttled to our room. 

“Lunch begins at 11:00 am,” the kind gentleman informed us.  

The oncology team did not hesitate. They recommended a strong dose of chemotherapy, but first surgery was needed to insert a port into Mark's chest for easy chemo application. Mark started his therapy eight hours a day, five days a week. It had been proven the chemo therapy was working. The biggest tumor was the size of a quarter, but shrank to just a bit bigger than a nickel.

For the next two months, we returned to the hospital the last week of the month.  Considering Mark was going through this horrible disease, he always maintained his energy, positive thought process and faith. The hospital made it possible for us to attend mass and go to confession at the local catholic church. That year we celebrated Thanksgiving at the hospital with our new friends. Later that week I noticed, for the first time, Mark appeared a bit more tired. We would walk into the cotton fields behind the hospital to talk, but this time he didn’t want to walk. We sat outside in the patio to stare toward the Estrella mountains.  We didn’t talk we just held hands. We knew what we were both thinking. 

“Angela, I need to tell you something,” Mark said. 

“Ok,” I replied. 

“I’m not going to be here for Christmas,” he said in a quiet voice. He tightened his grip of my hand. “I want you to know this. I feel it. I don’t know why I feel it, but I do,” he said in a depressed tone. 

“Don’t say that, please don’t tell me that,” I begged, holding back tears. 

“I have to go to the restroom,” he told me. 

I looked into the sky and prayed, “Please Father in Heaven, please give me the strength to endure what is to come.”

            We returned home. Landing back in Houston we saw elaborate Christmas decorations. Mark loved Christmas, his favorite holiday. Normally we would celebrate by taking a Christmas tour of houselights. Since we really couldn’t afford the increased light bill during the season, we drove into the well to do neighborhoods to marvel at the houses that could. It was fun touring houses that went all out this time of year. We played “guess what type of work they do to afford all the lights.” We had it narrowed down to doctor, high priced lawyer, CEO, CFO and drug dealer. Afterwards we would go home, drink hot chocolate and eat dulce or sweet bread. We sat in silence in the living room. 

  “I see cartoons,” Mark woke me up. 

“What?” I asked confused. I instantly opened my eyes to look at the clock showing 3:15 am.

“I see cartoons, not like Tom and Jerry or Mickey Mouse, I see everything white,” he continued.

Immediately I turned on the lamp. Mark was laying down with his eyes closed talking.  “God, if you’re going to take me, I’m ready, but please take care of my Angela,” he prayed out loud. 

“What do you see?” I asked. 

“Everything is shiny white,” he explained. 

I got out of bed, dropped to my knees in panic and prayed, “Dear Father in Heaven, please don’t let Mark suffer. If you are going to take him, please hear my prayer, don’t let him suffer.” 

The time was now. The oncologist made his routine weekly visit. It was recommended a hospice facility would be better equipped for palliative care. That late morning an ambulance arrived to take Mark to hospice. I grabbed a few items. We arrived, greeted by a team of empathetic professionals. The nurses took charge of us handling everything that was needed. We were taken to our room. It was a cozy bed and breakfast type of setting complete with a hospital bed dressed like no other, two recliners with a sofa along with a beautifully Afghan blanket draped in the back and a tv mounted on the wall. To the left of the bed there was book shelves filled with books, puzzles and magazines.  

All this time, I never saw or heard Mark get upset about being diagnosed. His spirit was tough. He was in full peaceful acceptance of what was to come. The nurses applied an additional catheter and that’s when I heard an exhausted loud voice pleading for mercy. 

“It hurts!” he yelled. I grabbed a pillow from the sofa to release my sadness and screamed into it. My heart couldn’t stand it.

The nurse sat next to me on the sofa. She told me Mark was in the transition phase of life. She described it as one foot being in this world and the other in the next. Mark slept deep with irregular breathing. There was nothing for me to do, but I wanted to be close to his bed. Mark opened his eyes as if it was demanded of him, he brought himself to his knees on top of the bed. He pulled off his sheets, removed his gown and nose tubing, as well as started to pull on both catheters. On his knees, he pointed towards the crown molding of the ceiling with his right hand, then lifted his left hand extending both hands like a baby boy wanting to get carried by his father. 

I got scared, but something allowed me to not panic. The episode lasted one to three minutes. I saw joy on Mark's face. I have never seen joy like that before. I placed my hand on his shoulder. He turned his head towards me. He proceeded to tell me exactly who he saw, unfortunately his tongue was majorly swollen so I didn’t understand what he was saying, but my heart knew.

The nurse came in to administer pain medication. “Let me check his vital signs first,” she said. She checked then put down her stethoscope. “I’m sorry Mrs., it’s time, we are talking minutes.” 

Mark laid there with both arms on his side. I grabbed his right hand. I caressed his hair backwards whispering to him, “Please don’t forget me. I love you, Mark, I always have and I forgive you. Please know I forgive you,” I continued. Using all the strength God supplied me, I used it not to cry. I didn’t want Mark to hear me cry. 

Still holding his hand I kept on repeating, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” I leaned in to give him a kiss and he pursed his lips to reciprocate. 

“Did you see that!” the nurse exclaimed. “He wasn’t supposed to do that, he doesn’t have the capability to kiss you.” She was amazed.  

I released his hand and took one step back. Mark breathed in and exhaled slowly; his life was over. It was time to face it, my life was over too. There was no returning from this darkness. I grabbed the pillow and screamed a well needed louder than life scream.  “Where are you?” I yelled into the pillow. “Why did you leave me? Take me with you, I’m going to be alone! Don’t leave me, please take me with you! Because of you, I’m never going to be a mother, never going to be a wife again! Why!” I yelled as loud as I could get. “My life is over!”  

I closed my eyes and envisioned the devil himself in front of me. That demonic evil punched a hole into my chest to yank out my once beautiful heart. He shredded it into tiny pieces laughing, looking at me like victory he placed it back into my chest. 

“Try to love again with this damaged heart, I bet you won’t,” I heard. 

The nurse called my name, “You ok honey?” 

Instantly, I remembered Mark’s vision. God Himself appeared to Mark to show him something grand, we as humans will never fathom. I knew Mark did not lose his soul.  December 21, 2010 is the day I died….inside.

It’s been almost fourteen years since the day I lost Mark. When you lose a spouse, you will never be the same ever again. It never becomes easier. You will never get over the fact your spouse is dead. Yes, you will move on, but moving on doesn’t mean you forget. It’s impossible to forget. Catholically speaking, I have become more aware and devoted to The Holy Souls in purgatory. I have become stronger in my faith. I recite and offer all my rosaries for Mark’s soul as well as others who might be experiencing the purification before Heaven. 

It brings me comfort to speak to Mark on a regular basis and write him letters. I visit his grave as well as have masses said for him. The trials God brought me through were grave ones, but He was there with me the whole way through. He never left me for one minute. I highly recommend finding your spirit. There is a world that can’t be seen with the naked eye, rely on the eyes of your soul. Don’t ever give up Faith, Hope and Love. This will come to pass, but it’s up to us to mold the outcomes. Dear Father in Heaven, thank you for being with me; all this time I thought I was alone, but you never left. All my life, it’s always been just you and I.

Angela B. Curnutt: In 2014 I married a wonderful man, Robert, and together we brought home three baby boys from the hospital. We currently live in Houston, Texas. Today, I attend St. Thomas University as a sophomore majoring in nursing with a minor in Theology. My goal is to work in hospice easing others of their potential fears and anxiety. God has provided me with trials that allowed me to obtain the tools needed and the courage to leave a high-ranking law firm to focus on my calling of helping others. This is my first professionally written story which fueled my desire to work with others. If my suffering can be the source of someone’s strength then I feel that I am following the path that God has made for me.