100 Hours. Hope Floats.

by Lori Dwyer on February 14, 2011 · 90 comments

100 hours. From when Tony hung himself, from when his heart first stopped beating, to when I left him in the Intensive Care Unit.

100 hours.

All of it painful. Like childbirth- hurts like fuck. Waves of rolling pain that you have no option but to walk through, to breath through, till that wave subsides.

And wait for the next one.

100 hours of pain like childbirth. As someone who has only done 5 hours in labour (and all of that with my husband holding my hand, not me holding his), I suppose I was exceptionally ill-prepared for this.

As if anyone could ever be prepared, for this.

100 hours.

Hope floats, they say. And there’s no place where that is truer than in the ICU.

Hope floats.

From one meeting to the next.

You have meetings, in the ICU, every 24 hours, for a case such as Tony’s. Every 24 hours they give your diagnosis. But they tell you, that diagnosis lasts only until the next meeting. Until things change again. You can’t call doctors on what they’ve said previously, trip them up with their promises.

There are no promises, in the ICU. A diagnosis is only as good as the next meeting.

Ans it’s always one step forward, two steps back.

The doctor, she told us that. She was lovely and quiet and compassionate and I could see why she worked as an ICU doctor, the best of the best. What a calming, restful soul she was.

Tony lasted longer than he should have. When he was admitted, they were planning to turn off life support within 24 hours.

And then, they reduced his sedation and he moved. Within 20 minutes, his feet were moving. His eyes were opening. He was responsive.

That lasted for about eight hours. He responded, to everything we said. He showed us he could move. He fought. I told him “You’re in the hospital, babe” and he flexed his feet, forced his eyes open.

“Two days, it’s only been two days babe, I promise.”

And he relaxed again.

And no one knew what was going on, the doctors said he wasn’t responding ‘normally’. But in the ICU there is no ‘normal’. The human body, when it gets to the point where it needs ICU, and ventilation to keep it breathing… it’s a mystery, from there. Which is why the diagnoses are as they are- just for now, not long term,not ever.

I wasn’t there, the whole time Tony was responsive. I thought it meant we had more time, that he was getting better….

That we had all the time in the world.

I took the night shift. I slept with my husband, by his side, laying on his arm, kissed him good night and told him it was night time, to pretend he was at home, and the kids were tucked up in bed, and I was downstairs on the bloody computer, and everything was fine.

And sleep, baby, sleep with me. And in the morning, you can squeeze my hand for me. And it will be a whole new start.

And by the morning… no movement. Nothing. Nothing but a climbing temperature, and a blood pressure that would sky rocket to the point where his body was screaming, shaking, almost fitting.

His body shutting down, letting go.

Tony and I, we spoke of death and the afterlife a lot. He promised, if he died, I would feel his hand running down my face as he left the Earth- to tell me he was leaving, and that he was OK.

The first night, the night of the afternoon when Tony hung himself, I felt him. I was traumatised, crying, pacing, screaming around a friends backyard. And I felt his fingertips on my forehead, and I told him to go, to leave me alone, I wasn’t ready for him to go yet.

The day after he was responsive in hospital, as his vitals climbed and climbed and his brain swelled and his body heated, I lost my temper. Not there, not at him, but at my sister-in-laws house, where I fist met him. I screamed at him, how could you do this? How could you leave me?

And I felt him, his hand run down my face. And he kissed me, and I tasted the sweetness of his breath and felt his lips curl into a smile as they pressed into mine. Felt his arms around me.

And then, he was gone. And I knew that.

I ran in, told his sister- “He’s gone. Just now, he left.” And she span to the hospital, to hold him, to say goodbye as he was leaving.

Tony and I, we spent our last night together, as man and wife, on the 9th of January.

I couldn’t lay with him, and that hurts, even now, because of his blood pressure and the way they were monitoring it. But the nurses (bless them, angels) pulled off his bed rail, and the arm from my chair, and I curled and slept with my face on my Tony’s broad, tanned arm, smelling the salt of his skin.

For five hours, I slept, dreamless to me.

But the next morning, the nurse, she said to me “I don’t know what you were dreaming about.. you probably don’t remember. But you had the most beautiful smile on your face. I called the other nurses, I had to show them. And we all cried for you.”

And I cried too. My last night, with my husband.

My last night, as his wife.

And the final day, the final night. Brain death declared at 3:12pm, even though his feet were moving, twitching, responding to touch, but not pain. Just a spinal reflex. Absolutley no blood flow to the brain. If the life suppiort were turned off, Tony would have died very, very quickly.

But to walk away from someone, like that…. it’s so very, very hard.

For successful organ donation, a person is kept ventilated.

I walked away from my husband’s body at about 7pm on the 10th January. I left him with his mother, and sister. The people I got him from. the people he belonged to, really.

I kissed him, on the mouth, before I left. I could feel the Vaseline they’d put on his lips, to keep them moist. And he tasted stale, sour.

But still sweet. Still like Tony.

Hope floats. Until the very last second, and even beyond that.

Hope floats.


I ran away from the world this weekend. I ate, slept without pills occasionally. Got dressed up and went out and felt pretty. Went to Glebe Markets, just for the people, the atmosphere.

Saw a physic, who told me many things. But firstly that I was protected. No accidents, no cancer, for me. A long, interesting life, and to die, happy, of old age. That I would marry again, have a son, to a man that is a gift from my husband, and from a woman in the Astral afterlife who is watching over me.

And I bought candy, rock candy, sweet and sugary. A mixed bag, a cheap one, a bag of off cuts from a boutique candy factory.

And found myself eating other people’s left over wedding candy, with the names of couples embossed into the middle of the candy roll. Christian and Ava, Rocco and Anna, Narelle and Hayden.

And I wondered how many of them are still happily married.

The irony.

Hope floats.

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Mirne February 4, 2012 at 8:46 pm

I'm glad you felt his presence when he left. That must be very special to you. That memory. I don't have that off my children. My daughter died inside me and I didn't know. My first son stopped breathing on the sofa just after his daddy had fed him, and I didn't know. My second son died in his hospital cot, at night, with his daddy and I sleeping in the same room as him, three days after his birth, and I didn't know. Somehow I feel that I failed as a mother, because my children died and I didn't know.


Livi October 25, 2011 at 11:06 pm

That is the most beautiful and painful post I have ever read.


Bwendo July 15, 2011 at 12:09 pm

Thanks for sharing – it is so brave to share what still has such a stigma attached to it. My step brother did the same thing five years ago and he isn't much talked about in some parts of the family – like the shame is obliterating his memory.
Hopefully, more talking about suicide will open up those men to talking about it themselves and help them concede that they may need some help or a good rest to recollect their thoughts.
Lovely. Thank you.


Jayne June 20, 2011 at 8:13 am

I came across this post from Zoe, who commented up above. Such a heart-rending post, but so beautifully written. I wish you nothing but love and comfort!


Zoe Paige June 8, 2011 at 9:31 pm

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I read this. You are in my thoughts. Wow – you are amazing. Your husband will always be looking out for you and your babies x


Rukzrockz April 22, 2011 at 2:48 am

It really is quite heart breaking. I'm really really sorry for your loss. I can feel the love you have for your husband through your words. Your writing is amazing and its beyond beautiful. I hope and pray that you and your family will be able to cope well and be strong. You're in my thoughts and prayers Lori. Hang on tight, he'll still be around, always and forever.


Anonymous February 22, 2011 at 7:51 pm

I am reading this post with tears streaming down my face. You are an amazing woman, we are all sending you so much love and strength.
mrsmac (BB)


Annie February 20, 2011 at 11:15 pm

Like many others, I'm in tears reading this post. I'm an ICU nurse, and have seen countless people who are living through the worst time of their lives. It never gets any easier from my perspective, and I just wanna reach out and send you so many cyber hugs. You're so strong. Keep blogging, girlfriend. It's going to get you through this. xxx


JallieDaddy February 19, 2011 at 8:50 pm

He really didn't want to go, did he? So sad, but so beautiful


Anonymous February 19, 2011 at 1:33 pm

Hi Lori,

My name is Laura and I live in Seattle, WA and I've been reading your blog for the last 5 weeks and think about you everyday. You are one of the strongest women I "know."

I read your last entry about saying this is your fault and happened to be listening to this song while reading and I thought it was fitting to share with you.


Hugs and love and peace in your heart, (one day, maybe not right now, but it will be there) coming at you all the way from the Pacific Northwest.

Stay true to who you are.



LJB February 18, 2011 at 1:22 pm

You write so beautifully about something so terrible.. it takes my breath away… you are so strong and amazing and writing will do you good, getting it out there can only be good. Keeping secrets and "protecting" people does not do anyone any good…


Fiona at Inner Pickle February 17, 2011 at 10:27 pm

An amazing post Lori. I don't know what to say, but I love listening to you. xx


River February 17, 2011 at 8:28 pm

Sweet post Lori. I'm still crying for you, but I'm so glad you went out and wandered around a market. Markets are a great place to lose yourself for a while, to get a break, for an hour or so. When you need it, you need it, and when you go home again, there's a renewal that you might not feel straight away, but it's there.


Hear Mum Roar February 17, 2011 at 5:36 pm

Just beautiful


bigwords is… February 17, 2011 at 3:45 pm

Hope floats, what a gorgeously heartfelt and hopeful post. That's what I thought when I read this – hope xx


Michael February 17, 2011 at 12:59 pm

Beautiful post. I don't cry, but I'm crying now.

I can't believe you have the strength to even put pants on, never mind blog.

I bid you peace.


Anonymous February 17, 2011 at 1:57 am

Lori, I've never commented on your blog before but as others have said I couldn't let this post pass without telling you what an amazing person you are. Your words are beautiful which is such a juxtaposition for such a tragic event. Just know, there are people literally all over the world thinking about you, sending you prayers, thoughts, and good vibes daily. As another commenter said, I've never met you and probably never will. That doesn't mean, however, that I don't think of you daily and have ever since this tragedy struck you. Please take all the time you need to heal. You deserve it. And only you know what's best for you, your children, and how to get through this as painless as possible. Much love to you & yours.


Sarah February 16, 2011 at 4:39 pm

Beautiful, beautiful post Lori. I love the image of you curled up next to him, smiling, asleep.


The Andersens February 16, 2011 at 4:53 am

I was telling my sister about your story yesterday, telling her how incredibly amazing I find you. That you were able to be there, to love Tony, to tell him that right to the very end. I was saying that I'm not sure I could do that – to remember what a good, strong, love filled person he was immediately following something so awful and tragic. My sister commented that maybe you were exactly the right person to be placed in Tony's life. That maybe in the grand workings of life and everything after, his death was inevitable and that YOUR life – including the depression and hardship you suffered as a teenager – was all in preparation for this event. You are able to understand and KNOW that this event wasn't the real Tony, that he was full of love for you and your family even after doing this. And you were able to be there for him and tell him that and know that he understood your forgiveness and love for him before he left. Keep hanging on Lori. We're all praying for you. Know that you are an inspiration to me – to always remember the good and keep love strong. xo


lifeofadoctorswife February 16, 2011 at 4:29 am

This is such a beautiful, beautiful post… And I am thankful that you can turn your agony into something so lovely, so moving.


Karen February 16, 2011 at 4:26 am

…I feel something like a newness in your inner soul, a lightness and clarity, a new lucidity in the way you impart these words to us.
This was so beautiful to read and it made me weep.
As a hospice volunteer for 3 years, I've had some very eerie experiences which led me to believe the soul, or spirit, of those who pass is able to touch/visit those of us who are still living. I truly believe it now and believe you too.


Anonymous February 16, 2011 at 3:31 am

Love never dies Lori. A woman who loves like you will be surrounded by love always. xx


Suz February 15, 2011 at 11:09 pm

What beautiful words Lori. You have a gift to be able to communicate in this way. In awe (and crying too) Much love xxxx


Rebecca February 15, 2011 at 9:28 pm

That moment when you know that the soul has left the body is an amazing feeling in itself. I saw it when we turned off my dad's life support machine.

But hope does float.


Andrea February 15, 2011 at 9:17 pm

hug. and another. and another.


Cinda February 15, 2011 at 8:26 pm

Beautifully written Lori. My heart goes out to you and your children.


MsKymOG February 15, 2011 at 7:47 pm

More tears from me. Your writing is amazing, your story is heartbreaking and beautiful in equal parts.


Jo Jo February 15, 2011 at 5:02 pm

I have meny tears running down my face, you write with the deapths of your soul, which is why I read you posts… wish there was more I could do or say xxx


Anonymous February 15, 2011 at 8:28 am

wow Lori, just wow! you had me in tears, and I don't cry. you have such an amazing gift. Thank you for sharing again.


Kristy February 15, 2011 at 7:29 am

I am so sorry, Lori. Some things just never make any sense. It is beautiful, you know, you sharing this. I think it is beautiful.


Scheherazade’s Den February 15, 2011 at 7:28 am

what to say to this post?

the scene you described at the hospital, your last sleep with him, had me in tears.

sending you all the hope, blessings and hugs I can.


Sarah and Steve February 15, 2011 at 6:34 am

Hang in there girl and keep writing to us!


Langdowns February 15, 2011 at 6:02 am

Beautifully written Lori


Vicky February 15, 2011 at 5:06 am

Its 4am, and I can't sleep because my heart is hurting. So I do what I do when I can't sleep, I catch up on my blog reading.

Thank you Lori. For sharing with raw honesty your journey. the good, the bad, the ugly.

it has put my hurting heart a little bit more into perspective.

love and light to you beautiful woman.



Anonymous February 15, 2011 at 4:55 am

I am not sure as to how I stumbled upon your blog but maybe it was for a reason. I read daily and am touched and hurt for you/through you daily. This post had me bawling. I don't know you but I love you and have sympathy for what you are enduring and I hope and pray that I never have to live through what you are. I have a soulmate just like you and he and I have rough days also. You remind me alot of myself. Thanks babe.



Heather February 15, 2011 at 3:40 am

This makes my heart hurt for you. Beautifully written. I have to agree with the others that have posted before me. You will ALWAYS be Tony's wife.


Anonymous February 15, 2011 at 3:34 am

Lori– I continue to pray for you, or if you don't believe in that, send good thoughts to the cosmos about you. You and I will never meet, I'm not married or a mom, and I'm far away from you in so many ways– but you are in my thoughts and prayers, and I want to believe that somehow that will help you through this horrible ordeal.

The pain doesn't end– but you will get used to it, and learn to live with it. That sounds crazy, but it just takes lots of time to feel your way through the tremendous grief.

And please know that through this blog, and the other readers throughout the world, that the globe is encircled with all of us who are "on your side"– whatever that is– and despite our anonymity to each other? Know that I would fight for you to the death, if it would help out in any way.


Anonymous February 15, 2011 at 1:17 am

this was so beautiful. hugs.


Poppie Lane Emporium February 15, 2011 at 12:05 am

Lori, thank you for sharing your story. I'm sitting here speechless and at a loss for words. So beautifully worded xo


Melissa February 14, 2011 at 10:55 pm

Hey Lori – another heartwrenching/beautiful post. Thank you for sharing with us. I'm glad you got away a little this weekend – I hope are refueled a little.
Thinking of you today.


Barbara February 14, 2011 at 10:47 pm

Such a beautiful post. I'm glad he came to you, that you had that link with him.


cassey February 14, 2011 at 10:15 pm



vaughnsmum February 14, 2011 at 10:07 pm

Have been keeping up with your posts for quite a while. They are all special but this one especially has lots of clarity. You must've really got back to you last weekend.


Jandy xx February 14, 2011 at 9:40 pm

Hi Lori

I recently came across your blog and have spent the last 2 days reading your story. I wish there was something i could say to fix it all, but no ones comeup with those words yet. Sometimes life is just fucked.

I'm writing to you today as a 32 year old woman (am I really old enough to call myself a woman?! eek!) who lost her father to a drug overdose when she was 3.

I want you to know that you should feel very comfortable in the knowledge that your children may one day stumble across your posts here.

Death from drug over dose, much like suicide, is a "taboo" subject. I grew up not knowing much about my dad at all. His family didn't speak about him, and my mum couldn't. I learnt of his cause of death when I was 16 and found his death certificate.

That's why what you're doing is invaluable. I would do anything to read about my dad's death and how my mum felt in the days and weeks and months following.

I'm not suggesting that you wont talk about Tony or his death, but there will be some questions you can't answer. But your blog will.

Youre doing the right thing, and one day your kids will thank you for giving them the option of reading it, if they want to.

Sorry this has turned into an essay, I probably should have emailed you!

Keep up the blogging, fuck the haters.


A Daft Scots Lass February 14, 2011 at 9:39 pm

I cried for you today. I cried for your loss. I cried because I could feel your pain.


Car February 14, 2011 at 9:18 pm

Thinking of you and finally understanding the meaning of hope floats, much love to you xxx


Farmers Wifey February 14, 2011 at 8:45 pm

I really believe in the afterlife and signs…I truly love this post and that your Tony "told" you he was okay……


Newmumma February 14, 2011 at 8:13 pm

You write so beautifully and speak your mind with such honesty. Inspiring. I have tears in my eyes. Big cyber hugs to you xx


Bec @ Bad Mummy February 14, 2011 at 8:12 pm

Heartbroken tears again.

Lots of love Lori.


Newmumma February 14, 2011 at 8:12 pm

This comment has been removed by the author.


Kelloggsville February 14, 2011 at 7:26 pm

Your writing is so beautiful, something so dreadful but shared so well, like its flowing from you. You wake up enormous strength of feeling in me to make me appreciate what I have today. Tomorrow it may be gone. It was you but it could be any one of us. The time you had in those 100 hours to have that togetherness to bring you both back together before he had to leave was a blessing, and how he must have fought to stay with you to give it to you xxx


TheBoyandMe February 14, 2011 at 7:01 pm

Oh Lori, as I sit here in floods of tears which I imagine you shed a plenty writing this, there aren't many things I can say to offer comfort. I agree though, you will always be his wife.


deardarl February 14, 2011 at 6:20 pm

Such a beautiful goodbye.

I saw a psychic shortly after Greg died. This lady was very direct about the things happening now, when all I really wanted to know about was the longer term.


Brenda February 14, 2011 at 6:06 pm

Hope floats. It does. Always. Love to you Lori.xxxx


Dorothy February 14, 2011 at 6:06 pm

Hi Lori,

As terrible as your story is, I envy you that you have been truly loved at least once. That you were with a man who was genuine, loving and true to you and your children.

I am so sorry that you lost him.


Miss Ruby February 14, 2011 at 5:47 pm

raw honest and powerful as ever

you will always be his wife – death doesnt change that xx

im curious as well – what did you think of your experience with the psychic?



Ms Styling You February 14, 2011 at 3:44 pm

Heartfelt and hopeful … thinking of you today and every day. I'm happy that you got to spend a couple of days away x


DylMah February 14, 2011 at 3:35 pm

Lori, your posts always move me. This one, especially so.

Hope floats, even when it seems like there is no hope left. It is always there, with the promise of things to come, even if they are not what you are hoping for.

Tony will always be with you, holding you in his arms, protecting you. As Glowless wrote, you will always be Tony's wife, and he your husband. No matter what the future brings, death can't take away the love you and Tony share. x


lori February 14, 2011 at 3:31 pm

That was so beautiful and moving, Lori. You're too good of a person to not find happiness again. You will. What the psychic said gave me goosebumps. Hope does float and you just hang on tight. Love you.


Jennifer February 14, 2011 at 3:30 pm

Yesterday was my birthday and my birthday wish was for you to have a better day, one that could give you some amount of peace. And hopefully, one sprinkled with laughter and a even a little fun.

Lori, I am in awe of your strength. This post was so beautiful and I'm glad you ran away from the world this weekend.

Take care! *hugs*


Donna February 14, 2011 at 3:25 pm

My God Lori, you amaze me, move me, inspire me… Another post palpable with your raw emotion, leaving me to shed tears for you again. I simply cannot imagine the ordeal you are immersed in but know you will survive this, like the psychic said. YOu deserve all the riches in the world in return for this nightmare


Mommisaurus Rex February 14, 2011 at 3:21 pm

You are protected. Thank you for continuing to share with us.
Kinds thoughts & long distance hugs.


Courtneyb February 14, 2011 at 3:21 pm

wow Lori,
You know, this is just the most amazing thing ive read. i had tears and goose bumps and a glowing heart feeling all at the same time.


Karla February 14, 2011 at 3:15 pm

Burst into tears about the Nurses and how they cried for you. Thinking of you x


thepixiechick February 14, 2011 at 2:39 pm

Well what do you know, you did it to me again. Speechless and in tears.
Glad you had a good weekend cutting loose.
Keep writing beautiful friend.


Maxabella February 14, 2011 at 2:36 pm

Everything floats, Lori. Everything. x


april February 14, 2011 at 2:13 pm

no words – but this is beautiful


Grace February 14, 2011 at 2:06 pm

Beautiful post, Lori.
Sending you love and lots of hope xxx


Marianna Annadanna February 14, 2011 at 2:01 pm

Such a beautiful post Lori. Such a lovely writer with a brilliant abaily to turn emotion into to words that we can all understand – or at least try to understand.

I *hope* for you every day. If my hope could only float across the world…

love and strength,


Colleen February 14, 2011 at 1:58 pm

You are right, hope floats. Hospitals are places filled with floating hope. No one knows what will happen at any given time. I remember when my Hubby was recently in hospital, walking past the entrance to the ICU and watching as a Minister walked in. I went out to the car and cried. I cried for a person that I didn't know, knowing that chances were their little hope bubble was possibly about to burst. I sit here in tears now, thinking how cruel life is at times. Life holds so much promise and beauty but also so much tragedy and heartbreak. I hope your psychic lady was right. Tony gave you your sign and you can bet that he is sitting up there watching you now, protecting you, ready to send your angel man to you when you are ready and willing to accept another person into your life.
Hugs to you Lori and also your beautiful children.


Super Sarah February 14, 2011 at 1:53 pm

Beautifully written Lori, articulate and emotional. I am happy for you that you were able to spend time running away, being yourself this weekend.


In Real Life February 14, 2011 at 1:51 pm



Jacki February 14, 2011 at 1:22 pm

Beautiful post Lori.


Being Me February 14, 2011 at 12:57 pm

Yes. Having watched two beloved family members (my grandmother and my daughter) leave right in front of me, you know. You do know. And those visits, those sweet, filling visits… it surely won't be the last he gives you. I loved this post, Lori. There is a newness in it, almost intangible, but recognisable and there.


Misfits Vintage February 14, 2011 at 12:52 pm

Good for you, getting through each day, bit by bit, as you can.

And good for you for donating Tony's organs. Thank you thank you thank you. My family suffers two different terrible diseases and we rely on organ donation to keep us to going, to watch our kids grow up, to get a few more years. So thank you thank you thank you.

Sarah xxx


Lucy February 14, 2011 at 12:39 pm

Crying. xx


flask February 14, 2011 at 12:35 pm


i am crying, wiping away the puddle, the streaming tears.

last sunday in church i asked prayers for you.

today in church people you never met or heard of asked after you and wished you to know that they keep you in prayers every day.


THE Bird February 14, 2011 at 11:20 pm

OMFG!! Reading this last post, The Eagles 'Wasted Time' playing as I read…. Previous posts have moved me, this last one had me in tears….

Your Tony is gone, that is just so fucked up.

The love you both shared & experienced together is just so amazing & just so truly, truly, awe inspiring. Awesome indeed.

Larger than life.

I wish, for just one second, to be able to experience for myself,the kind of love that you & Tony have for each other…

I know you have lost, in a big big way…

My nan used to tell me, "It is better to have loved & lost, than to have never loved at all…."


Drew February 14, 2011 at 12:19 pm

Lori, I don't believe I've commented before but not commenting on this post wasn't an option. Your writing is eloquent and it moved me to tears. There aren't any words I can offer that can change anything right now but just know that you're in my thoughts. I agree with Glowless, you will always be his wife even if you should remarry in the future.


x0xJ February 14, 2011 at 12:12 pm

…I don't know what to say.
This was probably the most difficult of all your posts for me to read. How deeply it pulled at me. Just when i think i've heard the hardest part you come out with more. Your writing is such a gift Lori.


Natalie Murray February 14, 2011 at 12:06 pm

Tears streaming down my face :'(… what a heartbreaking and yet hope-filled post. X


tiff(threeringcircus) February 14, 2011 at 12:05 pm


I never comment much but this post spoke to me. As a mother who has had to turn off life support, who has known that moment when my son left his body, you spoke to me.
Love to you always.


Jodie at Mummy Mayhem February 14, 2011 at 12:02 pm

I do believe, wholeheartedly hon, that your future will be rich with love and happiness. Hard to imagine right now, huh? But it will come.

Beautiful post.



Glowless @ Where’s My Glow February 14, 2011 at 11:54 am

It truly does float.

"My last night, as his wife." – You will always be his wife. Even if, as the psychic says, you remarry. And he will always be your husband.


Breanne February 14, 2011 at 5:32 pm

continuously amazed by you, your strength, your reflection, your words, your spirit.

I'm curious, what was your immediate reaction to the psychic's message? I can't imagine…


Good Golly Miss Holly! February 14, 2011 at 3:07 pm

I never fully understood what "Hope floats" meant until today x


Alison Triffett – Style Counsel February 14, 2011 at 1:35 pm

Lori, as always, you have a way of sharing with us all the essence of pain, and yet the essence of hope. You are, in one word, amazing.

I am crying as I write this, but it's good that you help others understand pain and hope all at the same time. And there's nothing wrong with crying, is there?! You will always have Tony's arms around you whenever you cry – always.

In my thoughts always…
Big Al xx


Kaye February 14, 2011 at 1:09 pm

I stumbled upon your blog through another blog and have been reading your posts for the last two weeks. I am so sorry for your loss, I don't have any words that, as a stranger, could make it better. I don't think I'd have the right words if I was a friend. I felt compelled to comment today because I wanted to thank you, not just for your honesty in your writing, but thank you for donating your husband's organs. Almost seven years ago my mom's life was saved because of an organ donor and because of the donor's brave and wonderful family, who like you, made the choice to donate their loved one's organs. My mom had six months to live when she received her heart from David, her donor. Our family will never, ever forget the gift that David and his family gave us. I wish that you never had to go through what you went through, but know because of your husband, many others will get a second chance at living. I know this won't bring your husband back and I'm sure it isn't much of a comfort to you because dammit, he's not with you anymore, but I felt the need to reach out and say thank you for what you did. It's personal and private and at the worst time in your life, you thought of others- others like my mom, who would not be here today without organ donation.


Toni February 14, 2011 at 12:07 pm

To me, hope is such a fragile, delicate word — like a soap bubble.

I'm glad you got away for the weekend. It's good to have some time out from the tornado, isn't it? And you need it. So take all the time you need, for your soul to be healed.


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