I am 77 years old.  In December 2021, my husband, Jim, was hospitalized with an acute kidney infection. Then the nightmare began. Two days in ICU, 2 days in acute. Two weeks in a rehab hospital including a morose Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. Four days back in acute care and then a Covid diagnosis. After weeks of spending all day, every day, with him, I was denied access to see or visit him. I am suddenly irrelevant.  

For over 2 weeks, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I talked to doctors and nurses who reported Jim wouldn’t eat and couldn’t talk by telephone. They put in feeding tubes and bandaged his hands so he couldn’t pull out the equipment. There was talk of a nursing home placement. Previously, Jim had stated, unequivocally, that he would kill himself before he would consider it. I insisted that he be discharged home with a visiting nurse and my 24/7 caregiving. I went to the hospital for training on feeding him. I barely knew him. Semi-comatose, his breath rasping, I stared at the man I loved, internally screaming “What have you done to him?” 

They brought him home in an ambulance, a shadow of the man who had left a month before. His grunts told me he was happy to be in his own bed in the house he loved so much. As always, he was miserably cold. Twenty-four hours later, he did peacefully in his sleep. Reeling with shock, I couldn’t accept that he was really gone. It was if he were in the hospital and would be home soon and everything would be all right. I stared at the coroner, asking questions that were meaningless to me. I cringed in horror as they zipped up the body bag that made an object of the person he was. 

I made cremation arrangements in a fog of disbelief and delusion. Fifty years of always being together, of a ‘you and me against the world’ mentality, boiled down to a single piece of paper that represented all that he, and we, had been. I crawled into a shell of misery, punctuated only by frequent calls from his son and daughter who might as well have lived on another planet. Family came when we brought his ashes home, trying to cheer me up, recalling old memories, things we’d done together, the pitiful legacy of years. Then they were gone, and I was alone with a pretty urn holding the remnants of my life.  

I don’t remember what I did that year. In a prison of disbelief, I wandered the house, pacing from room to room, unable to concentrate on anything. A life-long avid reader, I’d repeat the same page over and over and still not take it in. I tried to watch Televison movies but lost interest halfway through. I cried daily over trivialities like seeing commercials for things he had loved. Holidays came and went and meant nothing. With no work or schedule, one day is like another and it’s hard to remember what week or month it is. I talk to his picture, his urn, but one-way conversations never go anywhere. I think about going back to work, or volunteering, but I have no energy, no drive, no enthusiasm. The joy has gone. 

Suddenly, creeping up silently in the darkness, the one-year anniversary of his death arrives. My stepson and daughter-in-law drive up for the day, understanding how tough it is going to be. Instead of sitting round all day crying, as had seemed likely, I go out to eat with them and play briefly at a casino, glued to his favorite machine, remembering, remembering. It forces me to experience the world. 

It is the reluctant acknowledgement that a year has gone by that starts to convince me that he’s never coming back; that life goes on. Slowly, unloading the no-longer unbearable burden of grief, I start to reconnect with the world. It’s not a very pleasant world – it never will be without him – but it’s reality and I have cowered in delusion for too long. The light of my life has gone out. I embrace the dark. 

The gaping wound is still there but it’s no longer raw. I still cry. I still call out for him to come back, but I am a person again: sad and lonely but a person none-the-less. If I cannot yet look at the future with optimism, I can discern some kind of future that may seem bleak, but a future where the pain will somehow morph into some kind of meaning. 

DENIAL

Reeling with shock, I refused to accept that he was really gone. It was as if he were still in the hospital, would be home soon, and everything would be all right. I stared at the Coroner who asked questions that seemed meaningless. I made cremation arrangements in a fog of disbelief and delusion. Fifty years of always being together, of a ‘you and me against the world’ mentality, boiled down to a single piece of paper that represented all that he, and we, had been.

I crawled into a shell of misery, punctuated only by calls from his son and daughter who might as well have lived on another planet. Family came when we brought his ashes home, trying to cheer me up, recalling old memories, things we’d done together: the legacy of years. Then they were gone and I was alone with a pretty urn holding the remnants of my life.

I don’t remember what I did that year. In a prison of disbelief, I wandered the house, pacing from room to room, unable to concentrate on anything. A life-long avid reader, I’d repeat the same page over and over and still not take it in. I tried to watch television movies but lost interest half way through. I cried daily over trivialities like seeing commercials for things he’d loved. Holidays came and went and meant nothing. With no work or schedule, one day was just like another and it was hard to remember what day or month it was. I talked to his picture, his urn, his pillow but one-way conversations never go anywhere. I thought about going back to work or volunteering but had no energy, no drive, no enthusiam. The joy had gone.

A FORK IN THE ROAD

Suddenly, silently in the darkness, the one year anniversary of his death comes creeping. The kids drive from California for the day, understanding how tough it was going to be. Instead of sitting around all day moping, I go out to eat with them and play briefly at a casino, limiting myself to his favorite machine. It forces me to experience the world at large, a good shake-up.

It is the reluctant acknowledgment that a year has gone by that starts to convince me that he’s never coming back, that life goes agonizingly on. Slowly, unloading the no-longer unbearable burden of grief, I start to reconnect with the world. It’s not a very pleasant world — it never will be without him — but it’s reality and I have cowered in delusion for too long.

The gaping wound is still there but it’s no longer raw. I still cry. I still call out for him to come back. But I am a person again: sad and lonely but a person nonetheless. If I cannot look at the future with optimism, I can discern some kind of future that may seem bleak, but a future where the pain will perhaps morph into some kind of meaning.