5 years ago today at approximately 5:30 am, a 37 year old married father of two took his last breath on this Earth. He had the good grace (or audacity – I haven’t decided which) to breathe that last breath when I was out of the room. We’ve gone over this, but it’s my day of despair and I’ll repeat myself if I want to. It was the long night (enter dramatically sorrowful music here), feeding him the drugs every hour on the hour, to push him closer to that last breath. I was exhausted, naturally, in every way humanly possible one could be exhausted. My mom was with me. She took the dogs out. I went into the kitchen to make coffee. My mom came back in, went into the living room to check on Ash, came back to the kitchen and said “Ash is gone. He’s gone.” I’m quoting that but it might not be verbatim or even at all what she said but close enough. And as we know, I brilliantly replied “how do you know?”. A real scholar I am.

The first clue was that he was no longer breathing. The second (if you have a queasy stomach, maybe skip this part) was the strong iced tea colored mucus collected in his collar bone. It is a sight that is forever engrained in my brain, one I long to forget but it’s as though it just happened yesterday and not 1,825 days ago (I did have to break out the calculator to do the maths right then in case you were wondering). It might be the most heartbreaking memory in my head. To see my husband, just dead, soiled, head hanging to the side, lifeless. It’s one I try not think of often, and I’m mostly successful at it, but when I do think about it, I relive it all over again. I see it all. I feel it all. And goddamn (forgive me Lord) but it fucking hurts.

I had to leave the living room. I couldn’t stay. Couldn’t look at my husband like that. It was already something I could never unsee. I’ll never forget when hospice arrived, hours later, to pronounce him dead as a doornail, they said to let them know when I was ready for them to change him and call the funeral home, that I could take as much time as I needed with him. And I told them I needed no time. Because that was not him. He was not there. I did not need time with Ash’s lifeless body. I didn’t need his body. I needed him. I loved him. His soul. His heart. The body was an added bonus. Hey oh! That took a weird turn, my apologies.

My point is, if I even have one, is that time was up. I didn’t need more time because there was no more time. Ash was gone. Whether his body was still in the living room or not. My husband was gone. I believe it was cloudy that day, leading to rain later in the day, which didn’t stop for about a year, I’m pretty sure (maybe, totally exaggerating). But as my mom and I were heading back to the kitchen, for some reason we were both looking out the window, and something in the sky flashed green three times. Three times. As if Ash were saying “I love you” (could have also very well been “fuck off bitch”. That we’ll never know.) I took it as an I love you. His way of showing me that he’s ok, that he’s with us and that we will be ok. (No, I don’t do drugs.) I like to believe there are signs everywhere and I like to believe that was his sign to me.

Anyway, five years ago today, all that happened. If this were a wedding anniversary, the traditional gift is wood. They don’t make death anniversary gifts, so if anyone wants to whittle (I spelled that about 14 different ways and I’m still not certain it’s spelled correctly but there’s no red squiggly line under it so I’m going with yes) me something, that would be cool. Wooden salad bowls are nice. A log cabin in Montana is even nicer.

This week has been tough (read above). I have felt literally all the feels. Let me rephrase, I have let myself feel all the feels this week. I have let myself go down memory lane. I have let myself feel what I felt that day. Is that healthy? I really don’t know. I guess it’s cathartic in a way. I always feel better after a good cry. Maybe days and days of good cries is a little excessive, but I like to go all in, feed my competitive side, be the best at being fucked up! Fill my head with all the memories that I can remember, good and bad, and just feel all of it again. I guess that’s kind of the point of anniversaries, right? To look back, remember, reflect? Maybe stop using the word feel?

None of this is to say that we are unhappy or depressed or don’t know how truly good our lives our. It’s just a sad time of year. I think Ash would be really proud of his sons. Jack is living his best life, growing up so quickly and becoming a young man that is determined, hard working, goal oriented and making his dreams come true. Colt is blossoming into an intelligent, unique, thoughtful and absolutely hilarious adolescent. It’s a testament to their strength and honestly (and not so humbly), a testament to mine. We were dealt a pretty shitty hand, however, we have and continue to make the best of it.

Ash deserves to be remembered (always in our opinion) but especially today. He deserves our grief, our memories, our love. Life is so short. Chase your dreams. Live with intention. Be kind. Love fully. Let go of that which you cannot control and remember to laugh. At everything. All the time. And then cry sometimes. Really lean into the derangement. Live like Kellie. I kid. Because that’s what I do. But you get the point. It’s your life and you (probably) only get one, although I’m not altogether convinced that Ash’s spirit isn’t living on in my yellow lab. So do what makes you happy. Don’t live to please others because no one has to walk in your shoes. Thank you for coming to my KellieTalk.

Ash Jones – husband, father, son, brother, friend. Rest In Peace, my love. We are striving to make you proud.