I majored in English (and Psychology) in college and, at times like this, I hate trying to write.My mind is foggy. How do I start? What do I really want to say? Why am I even writing?

These days, the fog seems to be a constant companion. "I know I got up to do something . . . but what?" I can't say I've moved very far since December 23, 2011. It's been too foggy. 

Before that day, there was a lot of motion. I met my love on September 29, 2007. He was hand-delivered to my home by a mutual friend who was trying to set us up. She masked it with getting a 'work crew' together to do yard work at my house. I met him by a bush at the back corner of my own house. The moment I looked into his eyes for the first time, I heard the still small voice saying, "he will never hurt you." I'd never had an introduction like that one.

We were together from that moment on, a lifetime member of Girl Scouts and an ex-felon, until the day he died. When we met, I was working with the Bureau of Vocational Rehabilitation and Goodwill to see if I was still able to be employed. He was on parole after 40 years in prison. My parents were healthy, after turning 80, and living 200 miles away. His few family members were mostly in the area and still not trusting that he would stay out of prison.

When we first went out together, I learned that I knew one of his sisters for years. She'd been the head of an agency in the area and we went to the same monthly meetings for years. He was shocked to discover that I knew her. From that first day, I was introduced to his friends and family and became a part of his world.

Changes came fast and furious as I took a temp job and lost it after a few months. He was finding his way in the 'outside world' and his jobs evolved to fit his interests. Both of us were dirt poor. I met his parole officer so he could get permission to move out of a half-way house and into my home. We adjusted to one another, spent many hours with his feisty disabled sister, and went through a whirlwind of discovering the vastly different worlds we grew up in. We took a great-nephew of his into our home for six months while his mother was in a homeless shelter - he was too old for the facility. There were meetings with a volunteer group for ex-felons. He enrolled in college and began pursuing a degree.

My family first discovered he was black when I was hospitalized and had a hysterectomy. I hadn't discussed it with them; my parents were from an earlier time and I didn't want them to worry about it. When my sister visited, she met him. I learned later that my sisters reassured my parents that it was obvious that we loved one another - and, especially, that he loved me.

My mother was diagnosed with a malignant, fast-growing brain tumor in September of 2009. Her family had a history of cancer, so that part was no surprise - the involvement of the brain was the shock. In February of 2010, she was very ill and we began to help take care of her with my father. Hollister and I were apart as I went to my parents' home and he continued with work at home. Just after midnight on March 12, 2010, my mother passed away. I left for home when I learned that Hollister was in the hospital due to breathing problems.

We weathered that change and were faced with another soon after. His feisty sister's health had been failing for some time. She was placed in a nursing home, removed by her son, and broke her leg. Once she was released from the hospital, she was in another facility for a short time before going back to the hospital. She passed away in August of 2010. The loss weighed heavily on Hollister.

In November of 2010, my Dad met Hollister when he spent Thanksgiving with us at our home. They got along remarkably well and shared their love of Cadillac's - my dad had loved a 1940s one and Hollister had his 1996 Sedan de Ville (that I called the 'Crapillac'). Somehow I think they connected during a short time of knowing one another.

In April, 2011, Hollister was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer - a fast-spreading cancer. Since it had been caught early, I felt our chances of being together a while longer were pretty good. He hadn't really eaten in a month when he was diagnosed; later, they found a large stomach ulcer was to blame. Still, we had a close call while he was still early in his treatment. It was after his first chemotherapy. After the ulcer was treated, things seemed to even out for a while.

In September of 2011, I got a call from one of my sisters. Dad had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He also didn't respond well to his first chemotherapy and they decided against continuing it. Hollister had completed his chemo and started radiation therapy. Dad went downhill rather quickly. In October, I went to take care of Dad when my sister needed to leave. Hollister continued with radiation. When I found that I needed 'backup' with Dad, Hollister joined me to help my father. Once my other sister had arrived, he came back home while I stayed until my other sister arrived.

Time was short for my father when I got back home. Hollister was due for more treatments and we faced those together until I returned for my father's funeral. Dad passed away on November 14, 2011. I went back for the funeral, stayed a couple of days to help with the early processing of the estate, and returned home. In the first days of December, Hollister was hospitalized.  It was for the last time.

Hollister spent about 3 weeks in the hospital in December. I was there each day and many of the nights. He was treated for pneumonia. Nothing seemed to help. One of his lungs was drained, through a tube, then a burning medicine introduced to try to dry out the lung. Late on December 22, he was moved to the palliative care unit. The next morning, I called as many of his family and friends as I could contact. At 1:30 p.m., he quietly passed away. That was when the fog rolled in.