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Kirsten West Savali and Savali Savali III on their wedding day, Nov. 13, 2004 (Photo courtesy of Kirsten West Savali)

My husband’s heart stopped beating on Dec. 17, 2018, at 2:18 a.m.

Since mid-September, we had been trying to outrun the cancer that devastated his body. When it spread to his brain, neck and spine, we were terrified but refused to stop seeking, hoping and fighting for our forever.

As he slipped further into unconsciousness, I played Anthony Hamilton’s “Her Heart.” He played that song over and over during the last months of his life because he said my heart wouldn’t let him lose me. I played Outkast’s “Aquemini” and our wedding songs: “For You” by Kenny Latimore was his for me; mine for him was “My Love, Sweet Love” by Patti LaBelle.

He turned his head into my chest and that’s where he stayed — we stayed. Every breath he took, I took. When there was a long pause in his breathing, I stopped breathing. We were in sync, how we always were. I always matched my breathing with his to fall asleep.

Until he died in my arms, his tears blossoming across my shirt.

The minutes stretched over the silence. I couldn’t move. I wouldn’t move. When the nurses finally came in to bathe him, I told them, “Absolutely not.” I, alone, had cared for him through the illness that stole him from me. Under no circumstances would I miss cleansing his body and whispering how much I loved him with the desperate hope that he could still hear me and know I was by his side. I needed him to know that still, always, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, that there was no greater honor, no deeper joy and no sweeter love.

One late night, weeks before Savali died, I was in the car and Lauryn Hill’s ‘Tell Him” came on the radio, and my entire body sobbed and released. I was so tired, so terrified, and that song was the closest thing to prayer I had the strength to pray. Everything in my heart was in that song. Even though I don’t believe a god was listening, I desperately hoped the universe felt my heart breaking and would decide not to take him from me. My hands alternating between gripping and hitting the steering wheel, all I could say was “please” over and over again.

Surviving this kind of loss can be ugly, so please forgive any pretty words. Death does not care about your love, about your life, about your plans, about your future. It just comes, leaving pain and devastation in its wake.

Sometimes, I imagine dying

flying

diving through stars

to meet you wherever

you are

are you there?

just say the word

and I’ll come

When Savali was first diagnosed, it felt as if we descended into a dark tunnel filled with danger, fear, terror at every turn, and beasts we had to fight but couldn’t see. Then, I emerged from that tunnel—bloodied and bruised, and alone. As the years have expanded to fill my grief, I realized that I’m not just grieving the unfathomable loss of my person, but the life we dreamed of together. I mourn the woman I was with him and the language of our shared life together. I grieve for the butterflies he gave me until the very end, that now have no soft place to land.

I will be eternally grateful that I got to take his last breath with him, but, my god, does it feel like shards of glass in my lungs trying to keep breathing without him.