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http://www.charleston.net/stories/042504/moo_25matside.shtml

Sunday, April 25, 2004 
 
'Lou and I had a great run' 

BY CHARLIE THESZ 
Special to The Post and Courier 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Lou and Charlie Thesz were as close as two people could
be. Lou, regarded by many as the greatest wrestler of all time, passed
away April 28, 2002, three weeks after undergoing a triple bypass and
aortic valve replacement surgery. In her own words, Charlie Thesz
describes the painful process of losing Lou, and life without him.
  
PHOTO PROVIDED  
Charlie Thesz with husband Lou.  
 
It was the most bizarre feeling when Lou died -- I mean when he
actually stopped breathing. This was not supposed to happen. He was
Lou Thesz, he was invincible, immortal, and he was only 86. He had
promised to live to be 100.

Like all of my life with Lou, this was no exception.

I had been by the bed all night long as if I was helping with his
struggle to breathe. I did not find it uncomfortable to sit in a chair
with my head on a pillow nestled at his waist, so my hand was on his
arm. I was there when we awoke during the night. He helped me with my
struggle by stroking my head as I told him I loved him, but my feeling
of helplessness did not really constitute help for him with his
struggle.

I knew we were happier when I was there, and I had wondered how much
more he could take. Each breath took such energy, and I asked God to
take him now if he was not to survive. As I prayed, I could feel the
tears soak my pillow, but there was no sobbing. It is strange how
unselfish that prayer always is. It is torturous to see someone you
love suffer, but each breath is hope. Hope that some medicine, some
insidious breathing apparatus will make the difference.

That morning Lou opened his eyes, stared straight ahead at the window
and then around the room, and took a labored breath for the last time.
We did not know it was the last time, because he stopped breathing
periodically and a simple nudge or word would make his huge frame take
in air again. This time he would not resume, and as I nudged and
prodded, the nurse suctioned until the room was frantically filled
with technicians and machines. The dreaded and hated machines. The
machines I had promised he would never depend on for life. It was all
surreal and life has been so since.

Someone else filled my soul and soles. She comforted an angelic tech
who was looking so forward to her first shift on her first day on the
floor, and now stood sobbing the tears I could not find. Lou's night
nurse, long since off duty, was calling Lou's "doctor of the day" to
alert him. My voice said into the phone, "It is time to let him go."

My hand took the phone, my voice reiterated to the doctor, he agreed,
and the nurse passed the order on to the tech. The nurse was about
three feet to my body's right and the tech about four feet to my
body's left when the tech said, "I have a rhythm." My eyes saw the
respirator tube down Lou's throat, and my eyes looked the tech
straight in her eyes and my voice said, "Let him go!" And that was it.
Everyone was in tears by then, even my body was producing them. I was
surprised I still had the capability.

But where was my movie moment of death? He had not spoken the last
words I could repeat to myself in the years I had left. His life had
been so dramatic, our life together so intense. How could he have just
died? How could I have been so calm?

Years earlier, when Lou was asked to speak at a memorial service for
one of his dearest friends, I wanted to go, too. He didn't take me
with him then, either. I had been hurt then; now I was destroyed. I
knew he had to go, but he should have found a way for me to go with
him. I had promised him I would not be mad if he didn't want to fight
anymore, so I had to honor that promise. I was only mad because I was
again left behind.

I had known he was so very tired, and the therapists and doctors and
nurses were so concerned; well, the nurses and some of the therapists,
anyway. The doctors just mostly told me his age, 86, as if it were a
medical diagnosis. I had watched for days while he struggled for
breath through the weight of pneumonia. I just stayed focused on him.
I was there, and I loved him, and he knew it.

My daddy had died when I was 33 years old, my mother when I was 47.
Now I was 55 and alone. I am a very self-sufficient person, so the
aloneness was not overwhelming. It was the identity crisis that
overwhelmed me. I was part of a unit, in double harness, always
thinking in "we."

The last few years with Lou had not been our dream life. In fact, we
had fought like cats and dogs -- Lou the loyal dog and me the cat. Of
course, now we understood his forgetfulness, the belligerence and the
fatigue, as well as my impatience. A very dear friend once described
our relationship as "intense." The good news was the constancy of the
intensity. We neither fought nor loved without it.

Losing him was the height as well as the culmination of that
intensity.

No one enters this life exempt from loss and pain, but Lou and I had a
great run. He was incredibly healthy for most of our 29 years
together. I would be fine, there was no option. And I am fine! I have
always considered life to be a jigsaw puzzle, and when I didn't fit
into other pieces, it never bothered me. When I did fit, I tried to
add as much as I could to the overall picture.

I try to absorb all of this as an experience in life and make the most
of what I have. I remind myself every day I am not the first or the
last to feel this kind of pain. With all that said ... it still hurts
terribly.

The most helpful exercise is talking about Lou. Somehow I keep him
alive if I am talking about him, but life goes on, and it is time to
embrace what is happening today. The good news is: Lou Thesz will
always be "happening" to those of us who knew him as a wrestler and/or
a person.


--- Internet Rex 2.29