One more ... We miss you already, Ed Henne

Everyone was younger then

You always think there is one more year. One more month. One more week. One more day. One more hour. One more minute. One more breath. Until there isn't.

One of my biggest regrets in life is thinking I had just that little extra time. I was supposed to see my Dad. I stopped for breakfast at Cracker Barrel on the way. While I ate biscuits and gravy, my Dad took his last breath. I missed that "one more moment."

The Musician didn't make the same mistake I did. He was there. He went without hesitation. But, I worry that he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could have had one more weekend. He had been wanting to find a few days to visit his dad before out trip to Africa. The timing was always "not quite right." While we were traveling home, Ed was entering the hospital for the final time. He had been frail for a long time. Hip pain. Mini strokes. The years were catching up to him. We thought we could be emotionally prepared. We weren't. And I guess we never really are. The diagnosis was not what we expected. Something new. A condition that has 100% mortality. 0.007/million people. Even with surgery, mortality is 50%. I had never heard of it. Didn't know such a diagnosis existed.

As soon as we got home, the Musician didn't even unpack. He packed another bag and was on a plane. One way. No return flight. No return home until ... well, whenever. He would call me when it was time for me to come. When it was close. I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about how hard it was for him. No more parents. And the waiting, knowing the inevitable. The time would come when there wouldn't be one more day. One more hour. One more breath.

The final days, Ed was surrounded by his three children. His friends. His twin brother. Extended family. Members of his church. It was a celebration of his life in hospice. He was comfortable. His Faith was, and remained, strong. He was brave. Dignified. Prepared to face his future. It's the rest of us. We want, we expect ... just one more ... something. That Faith, that he had his whole life, every day ... that's the only thing that makes his loss easier for me. He knew he was going to Heaven. He knew he was facing God. And I know that I will be able to see him again. And my father. And my mother-in-law. And my friends and family that have gone before me. And the Musician knows too. But, it doesn't make it any easier. There isn't one more phone call. Just one more... isn't that what we really want.

Rest Ed. See you later. When there isn't one more breath ...