A Gift of Love: A Widow’S Memoir

Copyright © 2014 Linda Della Donna.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

1-(888)-242-5904

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0400-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0520-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0401-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013922523

Archway Publishing rev. date: 2/5/14

Contents

Preface

Prologue

PART I

1 Grief

2 Love

3 Gifts

4 Friendship

5 Heaven

6 Reality

7 Moments

8 Change

9 Limbo

10 Beginnings

PART II

11 Gratitude

PART III

12 Mourning Joy

13 Hope

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

A Note About The Author

Notes

E L S

Preface

On May 1, 2004, I sat in my kitchen and gazed out a window. In the distance, beyond a flowering plum, over coal-colored rooftops and the hills and dales of a small suburb where I lived in Westchester County, New York, I could see the early morning sun rising brightly in a cloudless sky. The only sounds were those of the breath in my nose, the laughter of two passersby dressed in shorts, the clip-clip-clapping of their sneakers on pavement, and an inner voice whispering over and over, I promise. For a long time after the couple had faded from view, I stared blankly at a yellow-eyed grackle strutting about the front yard pecking dirt, and I wondered how I would ever be able to fulfill my promise. It was my sixteenth wedding anniversary, and my husband was dead.

Together to the end; when Edward Louis Sclier breathed his last breath, I was by his side, and my promise whispered in his ear was the last sound he heard.

I’ll write your story, I said. I promise. I will let the whole world know just what you went through.

I said it. I meant it.

Ed’s dying words, Somebody should, haunt me.

Through the years, I have tried, without success, to get down on paper the personal story of an ordinary man who loved an ordinary woman in an extraordinary way. I confess I cannot get Ed Sclier’s story down on paper. I just cannot do it, and do it justice. I doubt I ever could. This book is more about me. It describes my grief journey, highlights the great man I fell in love with and married, the love we shared, and the woman I have become since my soul mate died. In describing certain events, I am brutally honest, and I know I face a tsunami of criticism for conveying feelings felt at a time when my life turned suddenly upside down. I understand that cancer is a serious illness. Please know that all opinions expressed here in my book regarding cancer and the treatment of it are my own. I know that in some cases, cancer is life-threatening, and I understand there are a lot of treatment options available that have been proven to be successful. Therefore, in no way should my personal opinions contained in this book be taken as advice or direction in any cancer patient’s personal treatment decisions. But perhaps, just perhaps, there is one widow out there reading my words, feeling as I felt. If so, and my words reach you, dear one reader, then that justifies and validates both of us. For me, it is one goal met and one promise fulfilled. As every widow learns, in order to heal and help fill the void after the death of a spouse, it is necessary and important that she give something back. In addition, in the writing of this book, I intentionally switched from past to present tense in some of the chapters. That said, let the chips fall where they may, and let the universe know, I offer this book up to Edward Louis Sclier in loving postscript: Accept this book as token of my sincere love and gratitude for all the respect, love, devotion, companionship, support, hope, and confidence you gave me, during and after our marriage. And, please, mark me paid in full.

My name is Linda Della Donna. This is my story.

Prologue

If you stand on the steps of the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong, you can see the sun rise over Central. Across murky water, through a misty harbor haze and pressed into the mountainside, is a sea of skyscrapers the colors of coal, wheat, and cinnamon. Each January, my husband, Edward Louis Sclier, traveled to Hong Kong to attend the annual toy fair held there. Lucky me, as his wife, I got to tag along. For more than seven years, starting each January 1, for several weeks, home was a tony suite at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kowloon. While Ed labored tirelessly in a stuffy hotel room meeting vendors from all over the world, plying his trade of selling giant teddy bears, porcelain dolls, stuffed tigers, multicolored caterpillars, and child-sized rag dolls for Goffa International, I was free to explore cobblestone streets, meet sidewalk vendors, eat noodle soup, shop till I dropped, and bond with my favorite city in the world. One day as I stood on the steps of the Peninsula Hotel gazing into the panoramic view of Central, I swore I heard voices saying someone would die. At the time I was ill and thought the voices meant me.

Later, when I returned to my hotel, I told my husband about the voices and what the voices said. I told him the message frightened me.

He said, You have some imagination, Linda. You should write a book.

Part I

MY LIFE AS I KNEW IT

- 1 -

GRIEF

Then finally this big yellow bus came around the corner.

And the brakes screeched very loud. And I had to cover my ears.

—Barbara Park’s storybook character Junie B. Jones

I placed a yellow rose on his chest; kissed his cheek, his forehead, his other cheek. I kissed his nose and lips and said good-night. I hugged him. I love you, I said. Forever, I said. Thank you for being my husband. Thank you for being my best friend.

It is Monday, May 3, 2004. The sky is gray as an elephant’s ear, and I am sitting numbly in a funeral parlor mourning the death of my husband. On the long list of ugly, this moment rockets to the top. My son, George, and his girlfriend, Colleen, sit on either side of me. I am surrounded by rows of people dressed in black. All color has vanished from my world. It is as if a light burning brightly simply turned off, and I want desperately to turn it back on, to be someplace else, any place else, and wake up to find this moment a terrible, horrible, giant mistake.

The scent of gladioli, roses, and carnations fills the air. George rises and walks to the center of the room. Extending his right hand, he places it firmly on my husband’s casket, bows his head, and pauses. He turns, steps to the podium, and faces the sea of inky mourners. The only sound I hear is the thump-thump of my heart and a thudding hush. My eyes fix on the blanket of roses spread out before me, and through the misty yellow haze the sound of George’s voice fades in, fades out, and echoes my brain.

"Ed was my father when my real father was not there for me. I love Ed. He was tough on me. But he did it because he wanted me to be a better man.

"My mother has asked me to say a few words for her. She wants you to know that she is forever indebted to Ed for his love. She says that his love made her feel special for sixteen years. She wishes she could have had sixteen times sixteen years more with the man who accepted her, loved her despite her lumps and bumps, and lovingly helped raise her son, me.

"Ed showed her the magic of travel—Hong Kong, Shanghai, Taipei, Alaska, St. Maarten, Chicago, New Orleans, New Mexico, and more.

"He taught her a sense for business. At least he tried to. She admits she wishes she had been a better student.

"My mother is proud to call herself Mrs. Edward Louis Sclier, and she will cherish his memory and love all the days of her life.

- 2 -

LOVE

Only people who are capable of loving strongly can also suffer great sorrow.

But this same necessity of loving serves to counteract the grief and heals them.

—Tolstoy

There is a beach in Rye, New York. It sits adjacent to a spinning Ferris wheel on Long Island Sound. One sunny August afternoon amid the raucous laughter of barefoot children at play, I spread my blanket on its sandy shore, unfolded a frayed, multicolored webbed beach chair, and placed it alongside a friend. At the time I was a single parent. When not moonlighting as a waitress, I worked as a secretary for the New York Power Authority. I owned one bathing suit, some pink-and-gray one-piece thing I washed out and hung up to dry each evening after every outing. And thanks to a cheap beach pass, my Macy’s marked-down special, and a record high heat wave for the summer of 1986, I spent my weekends at water’s edge, gabbing with a strange lady and watching my eleven-year-old son dart about the blistering sand, catching bees in a butterfly net.

So when are you going to start dating?

Jill was an untidy woman, someone I’d met at the start of the season. Her