On The Eve of his 40th Birthday

It’s the eve of what would’ve been Greg’s 40th birthday. Or rather, what I actually feel is that it’s the eve of what should’ve been his 40th birthday.

I’m supposed to be grateful for the “extra 10” years he had after his heart transplant. And I am. But I’m also angry, if I’m honest, because loving to 35 feels more like a defeat than a victory.

There are many days and many doctors burned into my memory. From the very beginning of his heart failure being diagnosed (and misdiagnosed), we were given time frames:

It’s your liver- you’ll be dead in days.

It’s your heart- you’ll die without a transplant. Maybe you’ll live one more year.

It’s your kidneys and heart not working together- you’ll be lucky to have 10 years.

Your lungs are compromised- you might have less time than you think.

And my least favorite and least helpful: He could have 30 more years! We just don’t know. (Said less than a month before he died).

It’s true - they just didn’t know. Doctors were making informed guesses but guesses they were. And the whole time Greg and I were looking at statistics, praying for healing and holding out hope.

We dreamed of being an old couple sitting on our proverbial rocking chairs together, but knew it was unlikely at best. But 50 seemed possible (under the best case scenario) and 40 years of life never seemed like too much to ask.

Instead he got 35 and tomorrow, on his 40th birthday, he’s been gone for over 4 years.

And though I know that God numbered his days before he was born, I still feel angry.

Despite the pointlessness in wondering what could’ve been done differently, I still question the care he received and wonder if he could’ve had more days.

And though he is fully well with his Father in heaven, I miss him and want him back.

40 years just doesn’t feel like too much to ask. 35 years was far too short.