HER VOICE FROM BEYOND

And how it ripples through.

One of the hardest things about where I am with my grief right now is how, little by little, I am slowly forgetting my wife’s presence.

Her voice doesn’t ring as clearly in my mind.
Her scent has faded from all her clothes.
Her photos don’t hold the same sway as if she’s slipping from something real into something remembered.

I often worry about how much more of her I will lose.

But then something unexpected happened.

This past weekend, one of my daughters needed her immunization record for college and somehow… I lost it.
(Something Judy would have never allowed on her watch!)

So I went on the hunt. Grumbling. Moaning. Digging through stacks of paper, hoping I had mindlessly stuffed it into one of the filing cabinets.

And that’s when I found something else. Something better.

Thirty-one pages of a diary Judy kept when she was first pregnant with the girls.

I never knew she even wrote these.

I scanned them. Had A.I. translate them. Took a breath. Then read.

It was an afternoon filled with tears and laughter.

At noon, my stomach felt uncomfortable again. My appetite still isn’t good.
Maybe it’s related to the constipation? Even though I didn’t feel like eating much,
I still had 5 dumplings + a small bowl of hot-and-sour soup.

Her diary is a rundown of what she ate, what she watched, and mainly whether or not she went to the bathroom:

My stomach felt uncomfortable again—this time it was more obvious.
Still no bowel movement… so frustrating.

I mean, she wrote about it a lot.

Finally… I had a bowel movement…
Not completely smooth, but it felt a lot better.
But when I wiped, there was blood—I jumped.
Not sure if it’s from straining too much affecting the babies,
or just an issue with that area…
Today’s diary is a bit gross…

Reading all this, I wish I had understood how much her bathroom concerns were affecting her at the time.

It’s no excuse, but Judy—and her family—talked about their bowel movements all the time. Every morning came with a report. At dinner, the conversation would drift to how the food might make them constipated… or the reverse. Somewhere along the way, I think I tuned it out more than I should have.

Mark rushed off to work. Says will be home late. Not sure if it’s psychological, but after Mark left, my stomach started feeling uncomfortable again.

I was also reminded, through her diary, how much I worked. It’s filled with notes about how late I’d come home and how on weekends I’d disappear to write.

As I read, that old guilt started creeping back in. That voice:
You should have been there more.

But then I kept reading. And realized I was there.
Maybe not perfectly. But in the moments that mattered.

Tonight my emotions were a bit intense…
Thinking about my stomach discomfort, the constipation not improving,
and how my lower back/butt has been swollen…
and not knowing when all of this will stop…
I suddenly couldn’t hold it in and started crying.
I didn’t want Mark to see me like this, but I couldn’t stop the tears.
He comforted me for a while, told me to relax, and not to always think negatively.
I know I should stay positive.
I’m already very lucky—because God gave me the best gift (babies),
And I have a husband who really takes care of me.
I tell myself to be patient…

And I was doing my best to soothe her fears.

Started feeling nauseous.
Regretted eating so many chips.
Felt weak. Started crying—because my stomach was really uncomfortable.
Thought taking a shower might help…but it didn’t.
While brushing my teeth, I threw up.
Couldn’t stop. Of course… a lot of chips came up.

Mark rushed upstairs, worried.
I told him it was probably because I ate too much— my stomach felt very sour.
I was worried it might affect the babies.
Mark said it wouldn’t—the babies are strong.
He’s really so patient with me… so appreciate…

These, along with the way she wrote about me massaging her back every night after the shots she had to take, quieted that voice in my head.

But maybe what I loved most was getting to relive her quirky sense of humor.

Had a bowel movement this morning—
Thank you, “little intestines.”

A close friend had something on her mind,
so I called and talked with her for 4–5 hours (11 a.m.–3 p.m.).
Unbelievable… being a woman—
so many emotions, so complicated.

And the way she worried about me and my unhealthy addiction to Hot Pockets.

Mark had a community meeting, so he just ate a Hot Pocket—poor him…
Not very nutritious. When I feel better, I should make him something more balanced.

Mark got home around 8 p.m.
Again—Hot Pockets… I’m starting to feel a little sick seeing him eat those things…

Mark said he’s been having diarrhea… feel sorry for him.

Apparently, it was very unhealthy.

But what came through the clearest, what I never doubted, but now could hear in her voice, was how deeply she loved the girls before they even arrived.

Had an ultrasound—saw the two babies for the first time. So cute…
The two little black shadows were about the size of peanuts.
And the two little “beans” inside seemed to know we were looking at them—
They were moving! Very cute!

My stomach still didn’t feel great, but I have to eat—for the babies…

I used to be around 116–118 lbs, now I’m 110.
Babies! Let’s keep going… stay strong together…

The babies have grown again—happy!
The doctor said they’re measuring a bit ahead (11 weeks).
Today, the two babies were positioned one in front of the other—funny!

I’ve been questioning lately if writing this Substack has been worth it.

After reading Judy’s diary, I have my answer:
Every word matters.

Because reading her diary didn’t just bring back memories. It showed me how much of her life still ripples through me. That she isn’t gone in the way I sometimes fear.

She’s still here, embedded in me. In the way I think. The way I act. The way I love our girls. I just have to look a little deeper to find her.

And maybe that’s the point of why I’m spewing all this here.

That someday, something I write might create a ripple in someone else.
Maybe even in my girls. Maybe years from now.
After I’m no longer here to say it.

That’s the beauty of words.
They carry our voices from beyond.

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