Fear, confusion, loss, anger, love, betrayal, loyalty, failure, freedom, rebirth -- all intense emotions on their own, but if you were to bundle them together into one moment, the human body and spirit could not possibly endure such stress.

But endure I did. Twenty years of marriage -- coming to an end -- a gradual deterioration yet one that ended abruptly without warning sending my life completely upside down; leaving me the master of my life but at the same moment the master of nothing.

December 1997-- a life time ago yet a vivid memory which can still make my blood run cold. We had married young (we were both 19 at the time) and oh how we loved each other -- and did till the very end and beyond.

Joe was a sweet caring man who would give you the shirt off you back in the middle of winter if he thought you could use it. He was my Knight -- at my side as I left the security of my wonderful family and went out into the big world. I was his Angel who would love him and treasure him and need him.

I was an Angel, he was a Knight -- and I was to find out he was also an alcoholic. I didn't even know there was such a disease at that time. Looking back I don't think I realized there was a physical and psychological problem for several years. But it didn't take long for me to see there was something wrong -- the little money we had was spent on alcohol which typically didn't remain in the house longer than the night it was brought home. And when he drank, out came the pain--the tears, the anger, the loneliness. I didn't know how to deal with it except to love him more and to be there for him to show him that I wouldn't leave him and wouldn't stop loving him. But this made it worse. I know now that he felt he didn't deserve anyone's love and he wanted no one to love him and that this lack of love validated his own sense of self-worth, which was extremely low. I don't know how long we'd been married when he made this clear to me. I can remember one episode vividly. Tears streaming down his face, fists clenched, his jumping up and down filled with frustration and turmoil. His words hit me hard, imprinted themselves forever in my memory: "I don't want you to love me; I don't want anyone to love me, because I don't want ot hurt you. I don't want to hurt anyone". As I write these words, I realize how strongly he believed in them -- how important this was to him. On that fateful day before Christmas 1997 he definitely put it into practice.

Twenty years of marriage -- an unbelievable journey which no one knows about completely. Some know some of the details, the kids know most of it, but I alone witnessed it all -- was a part of it all. Interesting, I write those words, and it was true, but it is also a lie, a very selfish lie. I did not know it all -- I did not know the torment that went on inside Joe. I could see it in his eyes, in his actions, in his drunken moments when he would let some of his thoughts and feelings out, but I never and will never know exactly what pain and fears he trapped inside himself.

Sober, he never complained. Sober, he was my Knight -- a great dad, a great husband, a great friend, a great man. Everyone who knew him, who's lives he touched can remember times that bring a smile to their face. But that was sober, and those times became few and far between. When he was drunk all his own needs, and fears slipped out of that dark corner of his being and he could no longer hide them. And when they surfaced, oh how they roared.

I think his biggest need was to have control over his life. Control over himself. Joe was such a sensitive person, full of love and empathy, but he didn't think these feelings were manly and he hated himself for them.

The day to day responsibilities, the feeling of hopelessness caused by low income, the feeling that he would never provide the home he wanted for himself and his family - all these left him feeling like he had no control over himself and his life. And he needed that -- we all need that.

Now here is where I hear some people say "So make it happen - change things!" Oh so easy to say, and for some, so easy to do. But you are not him. And here is a good spot to share a little insight into his past -- his childhood.

The information was gathered over the years, from moments of drunken disclosure, through sobs and tears. We can start the story at the moment of conception. Now remember that these early times in his life cannot be memories but had to have been told to him by family, by the most important people in anyone's life, by the one's who have the most impact on who you are.

NOTE: I have decided to remove the stories from my website as his family is still alive and I do not wish to cause them greater pain. I also am dealing with hearsay with most of his stories as I was not there when he was a child. I do not want to spread that.
However, what he said to me, he believed to be true and it is what formed his thoughts, his feelings, the basis of his life.

...the saga continues.....
And this is where I came into the picture. Someone from heaven as he put it. Someone he could never possibly be good enough for -- and I don't think this belief ever disappeared.

I was making a point when I started this trek through his past. Put yourself in his shoes. You have been told over and over and over again both in action and in words that you are no good, you are a loser and you will never become anything. This is a pretty big hole to climb out of, to turn your life around and take charge, especially if you have never been given any life tools with which to improve and grow.

The demons of his past were embedded too deep. Yes he had moments in his life where it seemed he had made it, but that was to us outsiders and it was short-term because those doubts, those feelings, those lessons, were still attached to his soul --attached for life. They had become part of him and refused to be ignored.

Throughout our married life, Joe did have his moments of taking control. Like a child throwing a tantrum or behaving in a way demanding punishment, any attention is at least some attention, and is also a plea for help. And so was Joe's sense of control. He got drunk when he wanted to, at inappropriate times, to prove to himself and others that he could do what he wanted, when he wanted. He took control by getting behind the wheel and driving -- driving fast, driving far, and unfortunately, driving drunk.

In the early years I knew when he had been drinking before he headed home from work. My stomach churned, my hands grew clammy, and I prayed I was wrong, (I rarely was) and I begged life to protect him and those he would come in contact with -- to keep everyone safe from harm. I take this time to thank life for doing just that. And so our life was a never ending roller coaster of sobriety and love, and drunkenness and pain. Until the last years, and then the roller coaster changed -- we plunged to new lows (as his memories surfaced, some of which I have not mentioned here), and reached new highs (as he reached out for help).

A.A. worked for him for a while -- the second time around. The first time he reached out and made the call, no one called back (another dismissal of value and importance). The church helped -- for a while.

Medication didn't help! Joe had an addictive personality, and we suffered through two traumatic overdose episodes.

And then there was Holmes House -- the rehabilitation centre. His lifeline, his saviour, our saviour. He went through the six week program twice. The first time of sobriety lasted about six months. Six months of heaven, of true happiness, or so it seemed. but inside things were the same and slowly his demons worked their way out and the 'bottle' re-entered his life. Another failure another hole in his ever-emptying basket of self-esteem. He said he could not go back, but he did -- about five years later, the year before the end. February of 1996, he reached another low and back he went.

The day he returned home, I knew we had made it. This time he was a new him. Life was good. He was home in time to skate in the father-daughter routine at our community skating carnival. Oh how proud he was, how confident, and how proud we were -- his family, his friends, our family, our friends! A priceless moment as he held his daughter's hand out on that ice for all to see and our son working the spotlights, being able to highlight the moment, to say "this is my dad".

A year of heaven we had. It never wavered. We planned for the future, we camped in the summer, he attended family functions, and he smiled -- we smiled. And then the fall. Just over a year later, several new beers hit the market, the advertising was so tantalizing and that first sip happened. He was trapped again. The spiral went fast-- from the one beer to getting drunk to feeling like a failure, inadequate, and the pain. But this time it was all worse than ever before. He had made his last attempt and had failed. This was the end and he knew it, we all knew it. Throughout the years there had been several suicide attempts and we knew it would happen again. It was just a matter of time.

I remember the first time, many years ago, before he went for medical help. I am not sure what time of year it was, or even what year it was for that matter, but I remember him raging into the house, stark naked, dragging the shotgun behind him, crying, shaking, broken. "I can't even do that right" he cried, "I can't even end my life". He later told me that he had went out into the field behind our house to die alone and had tripped on a corn stalk and fell, jamming the gun.

A later attempt, the over dose--a mixture of alcohol and medication. I arrived in the intensive care unit to find him lying naked beneath a single sheet, with black residue of the charcoal used to save his life covering his body. A fragile bag of bones, an empty shell, shaking, barely managing to make it to the chair to relieve himself - to empty his body of that which threatened to take his life. I sat by his side and held his hand, watching my Knight struggle to survive (part of him wanting to live but mostly wishing it had worked). I watched the tears of failure and self-hatred, of embarrassment of how he looked, and embarrassment of failure, of anger at being a burden to the nursing staff, and tears ran down my face. Oh how I loved this man. How I longed to be able to give him what he needed but it was not to be.

Back to that final year -- the plunging downward. Until that autumn, there was still hope. We managed to still have several great camping weekends. There he was, my knight at my side -- confident, loving, proud. Yet each time, the moment we returned home, he got drunk again and down he plunged, we plunged. Then September arrived, and no more moments of solitude at the campfire, no more camps of freedom and hope.

I guess this is where my life started changing as well, and in so doing cut away the life lines we had always had. I started chatting on the Internet that summer and at the end of August a dear friend told me a truth which changed my life: "Mom [as he came to call me], you are loving and loveable. You are wasting your life".

I realized then that I had forgotten "me". I was Mother and Wife, the keeper of the family, the one holding the life line. But the "ME" also had needs and I couldn't continue my life in the way I had been. And as I began to realize that I needed to change and started to demand it, this added to Joe's confusion. I pushed him further into his lost state. His sense of values and honour seemed to disappear. There were no limits anymore, nothing was disallowed.

It was November when I confronted him. The one last chance to save us. I told him what "I" needed, what I wanted in life. Yes I wanted to share it with him, but it had to be sober -- no alcohol, no drugs, no compromises on that. I did not ask for much, but on this I would not waiver. And so he agreed to it. He would do it.

For one day and night we talked, we planned, we loved, and then he got drunk. And it was over. I know it had been a test, I knew it then, but I was done with one last chances and had told him that in our conversations. He knew I would not give in. So now it was over, and one of us had to leave.

New Years 1998 was the date selected. By then one of us would be out of the house. It was settled. I was scared -- scared for what I was to face, scared of what he would do, scared of meeting my new life. But I did what I had to do. No regrets for staying with him all this time, and no regrets for saying it was over. And I felt free. At the same time that I was afraid, and deeply sad that it was over, I was also experiencing an elation I had not felt in a long time. I was excited, and -- free! But with this feeling came guilt. Guilty for feeling free, guilty for finally giving in, guilty for having broken my promise to never leave him. But not guilty for leaving -- this I had to do. Trying to live together was killing him and was robbing me. It was not good for either of us. Perhaps a small chance, he and I could live apart and in this way our love could continue and we both, all (children included) would benefit. It was a small chance and it could have worked.

For a while I thought he believed it. I thought he was going to take what he could and head out west for a new start -- I saw the glimmer of hope in his eyes, a small sense of excitement and I held my breath. But it was short-lived.

That night he got drunk -- the Saturday before Christmas and he got out the shotgun again. I settled him down, our son hid the gun and left the house, and I called 9-1-1. When the police arrived, I refused to let them handle it is the same manner they had done in the past. I remember the sarcastic tone of voice and the words that first time: "Unless there is a noose around his neck, or a gun to his head, there is nothing I can do". Well, not this time. This time they were going to do something!

Perhaps it was this defensiveness that started it off on the wrong foot. But when I could not produce the weapon, having no idea where our son had hid it, the officer was "in my face" and I was accused of not co-operating and there was nothing they could do. A man was threatening to end his life (and told them so) and the person who had called for help was the bad guy!

I managed to track down our son by car phone and find out where the gun was, and then - then, they charged Joe with unsafe storage of a firearm, handcuffed him and dragged him off to jail. That is what they decided they were able to do in this situation. Jail !

That was 10:00 p.m. At 7:00 a.m. Joe showed up at home again. They had had enough of him in the jail and had let him out. And voila, now we have a drunk, angry depressed man back in the house with the person who had put it all in motion sending him to jail. This didn't sound good to me, and I was right.

"You put me in jail -- how would you like to spend a night in a cold cell on a hard bed? Let's see how you'd like it". And the last scenario began.

Another 9-1-1 call was placed, but this time by Joe, and before my eyes transformed my husband from my knight, to a cold calculating animal. I know now that it was the final "don't love me, I don't want to hurt you" plea. But it lessens the impact no more. The words were harsh, cold, clear, and unfaltering: "My wife hit me. I am afraid for my life". Back came the police for Joe to press charges of assault against me. Fortunately they were good police officers this time and patient and calm. They had a good idea of what was happening and they talked Joe into waiting until he was sober to press charges and also until they were back on duty again which just happened to be Christmas Eve. They left, and I walked out the door behind them.

For the next three days our family was around the community -- Joe at home, and the kids and I each at a friend's house. All of shaken to the core and alone.

Christmas Eve arrived and I managed to get the kids and me together -- we went to my mother's small apartment-- waiting for Christmas to arrive as well as the police. That day Joe sent word for me to call him and so I did.

He did not remember the events of the weekend and he wanted me home. No -- it was never to be. It was over and no, no charges were made.

The week following Christmas, the kids and I managed to stay together, living off the generosity of friends. And then came the call. "You can have the house. The kids need to be in their house with you. I'll move out". And home we went. But he was still there (for a day). And so for one day, we had the odd moment of our last times together. They were strained and silent, but we were together for the last time. And then he left.

One week later I returned from a skating event to find police waiting for me in the laneway. He had come home and had shot himself in the chest. The police did not know how he was, but that it was serious. The two officers were amazing. They removed his chair from the house and talked to me. And then I had to make some calls -- to tell the kids not to come home, that I was headed to the hospital to see how he was and to be at his side. I also called my Mom. This was the hardest. She already knew -- and her response was "Oh! So he is NOT dead!". It hit me hard -- there it was -- Joe had killed himself. He was finally successful. He was dead.

I did not go to the hospital to see him. I am glad I didn't. I have enough images of that weekend already in my mind. I can see him crying, can feel his pain. I can see him prop the butt of the gun on the floor, it slipping and going off once, sending the bullet down the hall embedding itself in the freezer motor. I can see him fumbling with another shell, telling of his loss of hope to the police officer who had been called by a friend and who stood at his side making the final pleas for his life. I can see him lean over the muzzle of the gun, see the last tears fall, see him squeeze the trigger. I can hear the blast of the gun going off, see the bullet going upwards through his heart, out through the back of the chair and upwards through the patio door. And I can see that I was not there. I was not there that one last time to hold his hand when he needed it most, to share the last moments of his life with him, to tell him that I loved him. And he was gone. My knight was gone. That part of my future -- whatever it would have held (good or bad) was gone.

And I made the calls to let people know: his boss, my boss, his best friend, my best friends. And to start the funeral process in motion.

The kids and I never left the house. Some people find that hard to understand but it never bothered us. In fact it gave us peace. This was an amazing realization for me. I had always told Joe that suicide in the home was so selfish and cruel, leaving the family to look at that spot everyday or to finally have to move as they were unable to endure the constant reminder. But for me, it was a blessing that he came home to end his life. It was as if I was in fact able to hold his hand and to give him the last bit of support I could. It was in his chair, in his home, connected to his family that he died. He was where he should be in his last moments on this earth in 3-d form.

And then the funeral home... I knew this was going to be the hard part. The time when all the tears would come, when my heart would break out of sadness and loss, and sorrow. I asked to be alone with him for ten minutes before anyone came in. I took a deep breath, eyes transfixed on the casket and walked in and cried. I sobbed for about thirty seconds and then I looked at him and what I saw ended the tears. There he was, his cold body, surrounded by peace -- the most overpowering sense of calmness, peace and happiness I have ever felt. How could you cry for this, I thought. All I had ever wanted was for him to be happy and now he was. He was free of his demons. There layed my Knight.

But the enlightenment did not end there. As I talked to him, about him, I saw his face change, or appear to change. He would smile, and I would see a wink here and there. Bizarre you say, wishful thinking you say. Perhaps, but there is more.

As I was telling a story to someone, I looked at him and I could see him breathe -- not his body -- HIM! Shocked, I went directly to the kids and told them what I saw. They said "Thank God you saw it too. That is too freaky." And then I knew his spirit was still there. From then on I never left his side. I talked WITH him the rest of the afternoon and evening. We shared an amazing day together, sharing old memories, reassuring each other of our love and our futures.

I slept well that night... and at 4:20 a.m. I was awakened by his presence. I opened my eyes and saw a blue blur pass over my bed and was gone. I smiled, looked at my watch, said "Hi Joe, see you in a few hours" and went back to sleep.

I was given wise advice from a friend and was told to tell Joe that it was alright to leave, that we would be o.k. If we didn't let him go, he would be trapped by his need to watch over us. I instructed the kids on what to do during their last good-byes, and so we let him go.

I would like to share with you now the funeral arrangements. This is a selfish thing -- it is irrelevant to the story but it is the last act of love and respect I could give Joe and so it very important to me.

Surrounding the room were about 100 pictures of Joe's life: our wedding picture, kids births, fishing, prepping for demolition derbies, swimming, laughing... his life, JOE! Many people who came to the funeral home (there were 200 in total) did not know Joe well or did not know him at all. I wanted to show everyone my Knight, the man I loved and respected.

Into his casket with him were placed mementoes from those he loved. A best man-groom photo from his best friend in highschool, his favourite cross earring from my brother, a steering wheel from the kids (he had always said he wanted to be buried in a car..... this was the best we could do), a medallion from Holmes House, and from me, his coffee cup, cigarettes and lighter. I could never let him go anywhere without his necessities of life and these were the symbols of a fond farewell.

In the background played some tastefully selected hard rock music (his welding music as he called it). A soothing element in his life which let his spirit soar in life and which I wanted to honour him with at his death.

Our daughter's boyfriend played a Jazz-version of Amazing Grace on his trumpet accompanied by his father on the organ. Joe loved to listen to him play and during one camping trip, a jazz song brought Joe to tears. It was a perfect selection. My brother and his friend also played a music selection which spoke of life of torment on earth and climbing the mountain to heaven. I was so overwhelmed by the love and respect shown by my family on that difficult day.

The best person to speak at the funeral was the person who knew Joe the best -- knew the pain, the demons, the disease of alcoholism that he was cursed with as well as his dreams. The gentleman from the rehab. centre was the one to fill this role. It was a good choice- no one could have done a better job. His words were a salve to wounds of the day and a true tribute to Joe's life.