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The Last Chocolate Cake

Thoughts from Writing Chapter 1 of Suddenly Widowed: A Memoir of Survival

I could see myself, vividly, standing in the kitchen when I was writing this excerpt in Suddenly Widowed. The memory made me wonder about all of the ‘lasts’. The last meal we shared, the last family trip, the last birthday celebration, the last argument.

Mark kissed Jake on the top of the head and told him to have fun baking a chocolate cake with me. Then, as he always did whenever he left home, he told Jake he loved him.

I was leaning my left hip on the counter, my weight balanced on my right foot. Mark approached, and I stretched to give him a big squeeze and kiss. He told me he loved me, and I echoed back the sentiment as he headed out the door and hollered after him, “Be careful!

That was the last time I saw Mark alive. It was the last time I kissed him goodbye. It was the last time I hugged him. It was the last time I heard and said, ‘I love you’. It was the last chocolate cake I ever baked.”

This memory leaves me in silent thought, grappling for further details of that moment. How tight did Mark hug me? How long was our embrace? What else was said? What shirt was he wearing? Did we ever frost the cake? Did anyone ever eat it? Sometimes I wish there was a replay button, so I could remember more details. But, then I start to remember all the pain that followed that last good moment and I don’t want to relive that for any reason.

One lesson I learned from this experience is the importance of always saying goodbye to those you love and telling them that you love them. Mark and I were good at doing this, but I took it for granted and sometimes said it out of habit instead of emotion. Now, I tell my kids I love them with feeling and purpose every time, even if I find myself annoyed with something they did or didn’t do. I want my last words, every time I say goodbye, to be, “I love you.”

Selfish Thoughts Are Human

Thoughts from Writing Chapter 2 of Suddenly Widowed: A Memoir of Survival

My husband was late returning from his bicycle ride. He was training for another triathlon. It wasn’t that out of character for him to take longer than expected. He was known for stopping to talk with neighbors or putter around the yard before coming in the house. As I wrote this chapter I remembered not being terribly alarmed at the situation.

The loud ring of the home phone interrupted my thoughts. I walked over to the kitchen counter where the cordless handset was sitting and looked at the incoming number. I didn’t recognize the number but answered the call anyway. The woman’s voice on the other end asked, “May I speak with Patty Slupecki, please?” I responded. The woman identified herself and said she was calling from St. Vincent Hospital. She continued on in a very matter-of-fact manner and said that Mark had been in an accident and they would like me to come to the hospital.

I quietly gasped and quickly asked, “Is he okay?” The calm voice simply said, “The doctor will talk to you when you get here. There’s no need to rush.” This seemed reassuring, so I wasn’t too concerned. I also recalled how Mark’s brother, Andy, had been in an accident on his bicycle and had a few minor scrapes but was completely recovered. This thought was also reassuring to me.

Even with the Chaplain’s call, it never crossed my mind that Mark was dead. I was actually more concerned about how hard it was going to be taking care of him if he had a broken leg. It would be a real challenge for me. Our bedroom and bathroom were on the second floor, so navigation would be difficult. I had two young children to take care of, and I worked as a pharmaceutical sales rep. My plate was full.

It’s embarrassing to admit that my thoughts were so selfish at the time. But I want to be transparent and share the good, the bad, and even the ugly of my journey so others don’t feel alone in their own journeys. I believe it’s our human nature to have selfish thoughts and that’s okay. It’s our character and moral compass that guide us in determining the appropriate behaviors regardless of our initial thoughts.

Not Past the Tears

Thoughts from Writing Chapter 3 of Suddenly Widowed: A Memoir of Survival

This excerpt was taken from the chapter where I describe arriving at the hospital and learning that my husband had been killed.

My knees began to buckle. I felt all the strength and structure that held my body upright escape. I was going to fall. “I have to sit down.” I told my mother-in-law. She released her grip on me and I sank, nearly lifeless, into the dark leather sofa that sat along one side of the private waiting room.

A feeling of numbness came over my body and my mind went completely blank. My entire physical, mental, and spiritual being was in a trauma induced, state of shock. I didn’t have a single thought in my head. I didn’t have a question to ask. I didn’t even have a tear to shed in that moment. My world went dark.

While writing these words, the physical pain of grief came creeping back in. I was transported back to that scene and the crippling grief of having my husband taken from me. I cried, but kept writing through the blurry vision of my tear-filled eyes. This surprised me. After 15 years I thought I was past the tears. I’m a strong, thriving, independent, and happy woman now. But writing my story has had a number of unexpected consequences, one being new tears. Another was the physical symptoms grief can cause. I felt, very literally, a huge hole in the center of my torso, pain in my chest, and shortness of breath.

Thank God, these feelings did not last long this time. I was able to regain my composure in short order by simply getting up from my writing spot and changing my focus. But at the time my story took place, those feelings didn’t go away. They stayed with me day and night, day after day, week after week, month after month. I pleaded with God to make me feel better. I went to a grief counselor and attended a grief support group. I took an antidepressant and I drank, trying to drown out the pain. Nothing worked. I was locked into a suit of armor that constricted every breath I took and locked in the physical and emotional pain.

It took a lot of work, trial and error, but I eventually learned the only way to ‘move forward’ was to feel the pain. I had to acknowledge it, allow myself to feel it, and believe it would get better…and it did, in time.