By Jerry Healy
I’ve read that a person can die of a broken heart. I believe it may be true.
When we received the diagnosis that Jean’s cancer had returned, nothing in my life had scared me more. The scan exposed numerous metastases in her bones and liver. I stared at the report in disbelief. I knew this happened to millions of people every day all over the world. At that moment, however, in the deepest parts of my soul, it felt like I was the only one.
“If she continues to go downhill at the rate she’s going, we’re talking days or weeks, certainly not months or years,” the doctor told us.
It was surreal. I’d felt something was wrong for a couple months. She’d been fatigued, and her back had been bothering her. Over-the-counter medications and chiropractor visits had brought little relief. She’d tried ice-packs, heating pads, topical ointments, and massages but nothing seemed to help.
Two days after she was given the news that her cancer had returned and it was terminal, she made a startling announcement.
“If this is sudden, I want you to look for the very brightest white feather either on you or around you, and that will be me telling you I’m okay” she said as she was getting ready for bed one night.
I had no idea where that had come from. We’d never talked about anything like that before, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.
The night before, she’d asked me to promise that I would finish a story I’d started seven years earlier. It was about our life together and was something we wanted to leave for our great-grandchildren so they would know who we were.
After a few seconds of silence, I took her into my arms.
“I think you may have just written the last line of the book,” I said, as I gazed into her beautiful green eyes.
At that moment I had no idea the impact her statement about a white feather would have on my life.
After two hospital stays, several trips to the Infusion Room for IV fluids, and three Emergency Room visits, her condition worsened every day.
Watching her slip away so quickly and not being able to stop it, I felt helpless. My ability to protect her was out of my control.
Twenty-five days after she was diagnosed, she peacefully took her last breath on April 28, 2019, at 5:00 in the evening. Our daughter and son were with me. I held her hand, kissed her cheek, and told her it was okay if she needed to let go. I promised I would find her on the other side and asked her to take my love with her. She was gone a moment later.
As painful as that moment was, grieving has become even more unbearable at times.
Shortly after Jean’s passing, I felt a strong need to get away from everything familiar.
My first thought was to disappear and become a hermit. Losing my soul mate was like having my identity stripped away. Who was I now? Everything I’d known, everything familiar in my life was different. I was alone.
A friend in Ireland sent condolences, and a few days later sent a second message saying, “I know you and Jean were planning another trip to Ireland, but feel free to come for a visit on your own.” This started me thinking that a trip abroad might be a better option than disappearing into the woods feeling sorry for myself.
When I began planning the trip it gave me control of something, if only for a few hours at a time. Keeping busy was a good thing. However, I may have gotten carried away with my planning. The next thing I knew, not only was I going to Ireland, but also to London, Croatia, Vienna, Prague, Germany and Paris. I’d promised Jean I wouldn’t make any major decisions, like selling the house, for a year. I hoped this didn’t break that promise, but I think she was okay with it because I felt her presence every step of the way.
A week-and-a-half after she passed, I was driving down a street that I’d only used a handful of times in the 15 years we’d lived here. As I approached a traffic signal, I looked to my right, and there was a black pickup truck. White Feather Construction was painted on the door with a logo of a bright white feather about a foot high and three inches wide.
The light changed and I didn’t have a chance to take a picture. I’d never seen that truck before, or since. It felt like I was in an episode of The Twilight Zone.
I decided to travel with two backpacks: One big, and a smaller one I could carry like a bag. There was one very personal possession that I kept with me all the time. It was a small portion of my Angel’s ashes. I had chosen a special place in Ireland where I wanted them to rest. We’d both felt a connection to this place when we visited seven years earlier.
My dear friends who live in the west of Ireland picked me up at the airport. The next day we traveled east to Cavan County, the place that had captured our hearts. We found the perfect place to bury the ashes. It was along a nature trail next to a lake, at the base of a unique tree.
As we approached the area with tools and the small bag of Jean’s ashes, a beautiful swan appeared out of nowhere. As it put its head underwater, a huge plume of snow-white feathers shot up on the surface of the lake. I looked at my friends, they looked at me, and we all agreed that it was a sign.
The story of the feathers doesn’t end there. The next morning, my friends and I were having breakfast next to a window in a restaurant. A sparrow flew up outside the window holding a white feather in its beak, dropped the feather, and flew off. It was the first of eight feathers I found while traveling through seven different countries. Each one was in plain sight either on a sidewalk in front of me, or within a few feet off to one side. They are prized possessions now and hopefully will be passed to future generations along with the story.
While researching our ancestries, I found two people with surnames matching names in both our families in Cavan County. In 1857, there were only 13 families in the parish. They were certain to have known each other. We joked about them having children who married, perhaps starting a lineage that continued with Jean and me. Unfortunately, without records tracing our ancestry back to them, we’ll never know for sure. Looking back on when we met, we both felt it might have been with the help from a connection of distant souls from many years before.
There are so many different beliefs about what happens to our spirits when we die. We both believe that they reside in another dimension we can’t see. Our earthly minds can’t connect with the spiritual world, but our loved ones are able to leave signs bringing comfort to those of us left behind. There may be lessons we haven’t learned in past lives and we are given another chance to do better. I like to imagine that each life we live brings us to a higher plane.
I struggle with knowing I’m here without Jean. She’d want me to miss her but she wouldn’t want me to suffer. I’ll strive to find my new purpose in this life until our souls unite once again. Until then I’ll continue my search for bright white feathers.