By Tracy Cochran

The original (we’ve found out you may have issues with “signing on”); therefore, we copy ‘n pasted here.

Tracy Cochran

May 10, 2025

Saturday, May 10, 2025

It has been three months since Timothy, my “sweet”, has died. It still feels foreign to type those words, to check off “widow” in a little box to update my accounts…I always think, “How is this even my life now?” With Mother’s Day tomorrow, such a blessed day, a beautiful spring day to come…and yet. The absence seems to grow heavier, more acute, and yet foggier too. I still wonder where he is, still wonder what our life would be like if that awful Sunday morning in February had never happened. My thoughts then turn to the news we received a few days before February 10th…news I kept from CaringBridge just until, or so I thought, we received an actual prognosis, a time frame, more information. Nuanced bits of updates that I had gotten days before Timothy was extubated, slowly returning to the man I married in so many miraculous ways. News I was able to stumble through, gasping and questioning mentally and spiritually through those long lonely days in the ICU…Timothy was diagnosed with a very aggressive brain cancer, Glioblastoma. It, most likely, would have carried a sentence of maybe 12-18 months to live. This would be in spite of chemo and radiation which we were already starting to anticipate, the logistics of caring for him and what would happen to our girls when I would have to focus so much of my time, not with them and on them, but on their failing “hero” dad. The financial worries, the stress of not knowing how my stubborn independent non-compliant stoic sarcastic man would respond to medication and limitations and indecency and invasion of chemicals that could very much make the short – so short!! – time he had remaining horrible and debilitating. While I knew he would never be able to go back to work at his school home…heck, would not be able to even drive himself as he would be on seizure precautions (a very real threat), he died never fully knowing this would be the case. That is such a balm to my wounded soul. So, when I refer to God’s kindnesses, that is a very big one on my very long list. He could have had a seizure while driving – he had just spent that Saturday – his/our last day of “normal”, in Roanoke with the girls. He commuted 40 minutes west on I-64 to Alleghany High School every work morning and evening. So many kindnesses…even in the midst of horror and sadness and loss. It is only by faith that I am able to grasp these threads of comfort even now, some days seeing them more clearly than others.

What I never knew about grief: that you are always two halves of a person…the “before” and the “after” person. Time has both stopped and keeps moving forward regardless of how I feel, of what I must do. That in one second your life changes and you are both overwhelmed by paperwork and “to do” lists and stress and thoughts of “why me?”…to praising the God who gives and takes away. That in spite of how much time that passes I will always miss him, always think of something to share with him, always regret not asking him more of how I should hold things together once he was no longer here. He was the only one with whom I shared our honeymoon, who was with me when both girls were born (thanks, Miss Molly, for being born so precipitously in our bedroom and to our Piper Peanut for keeping us on our toes that April Fool’s Day!), when 9/11 happened and so many normal boring days of our 27 wedded years. We were married for 15 years before we were blessed with our babies – so many years for two lives to become entangled.

If I’ve learned anything it is this – prepare. Buy life insurance, cancer insurance – if you need it, you will be so so thankful God has provided. Know your accounts even if you do not handle your daily bills. Don’t assume you will always be healthy. Keep all your important papers, passwords together. Have that weird surreal conversation about wishes of the end-of-life, funerals, burial vs cremation, wills and beneficiaries. I was so wrapped up with taking one moment at a time, with thoughts of “Let’s get through this hurdle” that I never got to ask Timothy so many things. You always hear people say that life is precious, can change in an instant…it feels almost cliche to write. So easy to think, “I can’t imagine…!” and in the next breathe say quietly to yourself, “Glad that is not my life.” Most death is unexpected…if you think about it. Even on hospice…it is almost always too soon, never wanted. Maybe you are tired of seeing your loved ones hurt, detiorate, change – but you are never ever prepared for the after. You will never go back to the “pre” you. You will always be missing that puzzle piece whether you are spouse, sibling, in-law, friend, co-worker or neighbor. That piece (peace) has vanished and will never be replaced.

On this eve of my 1st Mother’s Day without my children’s father, I feel so many emotions – hope, fear, emptiness, new opportunities, strength and need and loss. We are still searching for our next step, each day putting what seems like excruciating baby steps into our next chapter. So many of you still serve me, surprise me, support me, in little and overwhelmingly big ways. Each one so appreciated. So many prayers still said when I find myself unable to mutter anything at all to the God of heaven and earth. Thank you so much. As difficult as each day continues to be, despite the ways my life and roles have changed against my will, with the way ahead still murky – we have until August when our lease runs out to find a safe new more affordable pet-friendly home – I cannot fathom my way through it all without you, my supportive community that surrounds us so tenderly. God has richly blessed us, putting each one of you in place in preparation for February, for today and beyond.

I will close with a few of my favorite verses that I am holding close right now:

Romans 15:13

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.

Hebrews 6:19

We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.

**A note before these last verses – if you have never been to the chapel of Carilion Rockbridge Community Hospital on the 3rd floor, I challenge you to go. My visit brought these verses to mind so vividly!**

Psalm 121:1-2

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

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God bless!