I’ve become a bit obsessed with the obituaries published in the newspaper.  They are as varied as the people they must represent.  Some are warm and personal.  Some are modified resumes, reciting in chronological order the accomplishments of the deceased.  

I don’t even read the obituaries for those who were over 80 when they passed.  Those deaths, though a great loss for family and friends, seem in accord with the natural order of things.  We are all going to die, and to have lived a long and fruitful life before that happens is a gift.  The deaths of the very young are tragic, most often the results of accidents or offered up in the obituaries without an explanation.  Suicide, I suspect, in some cases.

I scan for people who died at about Mark’s age.  Sometimes, when I find those, I’m frustrated because not all obituaries provide the cause of death, which is what I’m searching for.  When the cause of death is included, it’s almost always the same.

Cancer.  Not infrequently, pancreatic cancer.

When I find these I pause and then reread the obituary carefully, imagining the life and death reflected by the words.  I can see another spouse, another family, another circle of friends crushed by this terrible disease.  Maybe it’s vampirish, sucking at someone else’s loss and sorrow, but I don’t get a thrill from these recitations, nor comfort.  Perhaps it’s just a jolt of reality.  

Maybe, selfishly, I just want to be reminded that I’m not the only one who has been on this journey.

***

After Mark was diagnosed, I spent many hours researching pancreatic cancer, looking for new treatments, scrounging for hope.  Even now, I still occasionally come across articles about pancreatic cancer.  

I just found a 2010 study from John Hopkins Medical Center, titled “Surprise Finding:  Pancreatic Cancers Progress to Lethal Stage Slowly.”  Some of the timeframes the article put forward:  “…it takes at least a decade for the first cancer-causing mutation that occurs in a cell in a pancreatic lesion to turn into a full-fledged cancer cell…After the first cancer cell appears, it takes an average of nearly seven years for that cell to turn into the billions that make up a cancerous tumor the size of a plum, after which at least one of the cells within the tumor has the potential and ability to spread to other organs.  Patients die an average of two and a half years after this metastasis.”

In all likelihood, Mark had the ticking time bomb of pancreatic cancer inside of him for years, perhaps decades, before he suffered the baffling symptoms that triggered the diagnosis a year ago.  All these years, we continued on our life path, making our plans for the future,  not knowing that this dreadful disease was taking hold in his body.  

This realization has been nagging me ever since I read this article. All those years, and we had no idea.  This world is a bewildering place.


***


This week I visited my doctor for my annual physical.  Nothing extraordinary:  flu shot into the right arm, pneumonia shot into the left arm, several vials of blood sent off to the lab.  

I’ve been Dr. R’s patient for several years.  She’s practical, pleasant and an engaging woman to boot.  We always chat about our lives during the exam.  I’d gone to see her right after Mark’s diagnosis, when I was a sniveling mess, just to talk to her.  As I told her now about the end of Mark’s life, she radiated sympathy.

We were getting close to the end of the exam, all the appropriate boxes checked on Dr. R’s laptop.  My hands were cold, and I was looking forward to dumping the paper gown and getting back into my warm clothes.

Dr. R stared at the laptop screen and hesitated.  “I don’t want to offend you,” she said, “but I think we should talk about sex.”

That stopped me in my tracks.

She continued, “I’m not suggesting that you’re necessarily going to have sex anytime soon.  But it could happen, and…”

She looked right at me.

“Your age group has the most dangerous sex habits of any age group.  Most teenagers have safer sex than those in your age group.”

For some unknown reason, I suddenly felt guilty—on behalf on my age group, I suppose.

Dr. R hurried to explain.  “So as people are widowed or get divorced after long relationships, they’re out of touch with the realities of sex today.”  She talked about herpes and HPV, and how some contagious diseases that have very serious consequences for women can be asymptomatic in men.  “You should keep all this in the back of your mind.  It’s not like any man you'll have sex with is going to be a virgin.”

I think my mouth must have been gaping open.  I couldn’t come up with an appropriate response.  Wowsers.  

This widowhood business is certainly not for the faint of heart.

    It’s a brittle glittery fall day here in Seattle.  The leaves are turning and the wind has a sharp bite.  I love the transition seasons, spring and autumn.  They remind me that change is afoot.  

    But of course change is always upon us, the only constant, regardless of the season.      

    Each day is different for me.  Grief still lurks, waiting to pounce, but I’m following the advice of my counselor.  Instead of dreading and fearing the onset of grief, I’m trying to recognize that episodes will wash over me from time to time with terrible pain, but then, they will recede.  So when grief shoulders its way in, I tell it, okay, bring it on, knowing that it will sink its teeth into me, but then I’ll get through it and past it.  And that’s what happens.

    And though it seems counterintuitive, it’s strangely comforting to remember that I am, in terms of the universe, merely a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a…  My whole being is tinier and more insubstantial than a dust mote in the entirety of existence.  Even though I feel my loss intensely, it’s personal to me, not universe-shattering.  When I listen to the news every day, it’s clear so many others have suffered exponentially greater losses and tragedies.  No life will be untouched by grief and loss.  

    What helps most right now is a recognition that life still offers joy.  A dear friend lost his life to pancreatic cancer a couple of years ago, long before Mark received the same terrible diagnosis.  Just this last month, his youngest daughter gave birth to her first child, and the pictures of that new family clustering close and rejoicing in their very tiny baby made my heart swell.  We all wish her father was still here to celebrate with them, but the world just didn’t unfold that way.  He was fortunate enough to walk both his daughters down the wedding aisle in his final year before succumbing to that dreadful disease.  None of us will get all of what we want.  

    And as goofy as it may sound (especially to those who aren’t “animal people”), having the enormous ungainly puppy here is incredibly life-affirming.  Rusty is one year old now, but as is common in large breeds, he won’t lose his “puppiness” for at least another year.  He’s rambunctious and awkward and a lot of work, and he’s quite a bit bigger than the breeder told me he would be.  If Rusty and I  had conversations, they would sound like this:

    Me:    Oh, it’s such a gloomy day.

    Rusty:    Let’s go for a walk!

    Me:    Makes me want to sit on the couch and brood…

    Rusty:  Let’s go for a walk!

    Me:    —sigh--

    Rusty:    It’s a great day for a walk!  Hey!  Let’s go!

And so, we go for a walk, and the world suddenly is a more cheerful place.
  

Three months.  It’s been three months.

The third of each month is going to clang like a discordant bell for some time, I think, as a marker of time passed since June 3, when Mark died.

Hospice has written to me:  “It is not uncommon for people to describe their grief as ‘getting worse’ or describe their grief as ‘stronger’ three months after the death.  People often report their natural supports have begun to fade away, which may intensify any feelings of loneliness after a loss.”  They ask me to call if I want to talk.

Right now, I don’t want to talk.  What I want, of course, is to have Mark back.  I want him to walk through the doorway and give me a hug, and I want to realize that this has all been a long bad dream, one of those dreams that make you shudder when you wake up, cold all over from the realization that in your dream state you believed the horror was real.

Last night I dreamt that I was on a wide beach struggling to run away from the ocean, but I was mired in sand and couldn’t make much headway.  Behind me, I could sense massive dark waves mounting and climbing, coming my way, but I didn’t dare look back.  I didn’t want to see them.  I just kept pushing ahead, until I woke up.

Most days are better now, because the passage of time has started to work its inevitable magic.  I’m no longer constantly surprised at the turn my life has taken.  I can’t say I’m used to the changes, but I’m following this path with my eyes open, sometimes trudging with determination, but there are many intervals when I feel, well, normal—my new normal.

I’ve found comfort in the poetry of grief.  These poems are not new to me, but they have a different resonance now.  Rumi’s “The Guest House” urges me to be open to all the feelings that sweep through my life.  Rilke’s “Pushing Through” reminds me of the universality of the experience of grief.  It begins:


          “It’s possible I am pushing through solid rock
            in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone;
           I am such a long way in I see no way through,
           and no space: everything is close to my face,
           and everything close to my face is stone.
           …”

Perhaps it is Rilke’s poem that is the inspiration for the observations by the grief counsellors that the only way out of grief is through it.  

There is still so much to be done, and so much of it still seems impossible at the moment.  I picked up Marie Kondo’s book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up:  the Japanese art of decluttering and organizing because everyone seems to be talking about it.  My first observation is that Kondo must be a trifle insane.  I don’t really believe that the socks in my drawer can’t rest because they are balled up together.  Nevertheless, serious decluttering probably is life-affirming.  I just don’t think it’s time for me to do it yet.  Mark’s half of the closet remains untouched, except for the items Chris has taken to use.  (Fortunately, Mark and Chris shared the same size in almost everything.)  I started to fuss over what to do with some of Mark’s clothes.  Mark had a large collection of absolutely beautiful designer silk ties.  Chris may be able to use one or two, but what should I do with the others?  When I mentioned this to the counselor I was seeing, she asked me why I felt I needed to do anything right now.  Just pack them away, she advised.  You don’t need to deal with them now, she said.  

She’s absolutely right.  There is a lot more pressing and immediate business to address than disposing of Mark’s ties.  Now is a time to triage, and to only take on what needs to be taken on.  The rest can wait.

I’ve been to see a counselor a couple of times, to try to get a handle on this grieving business.  The conversations tend to go like this:

Me:  I’m so forgetful.
She:  That’s perfectly normal.

Me:  And I have so little energy.
She:  That’s normal.

Me:  I feel I’m getting better, and then I have a crash, and I feel terrible again.
She:  That’s to be expected.  The grieving process isn’t linear.

Me:  I get so easily overwhelmed.  It’s so difficult for me to formulate any plan.
She:  Perfectly normal.

Me:  What can I do to fix all this?
She:  Nothing.  You just have to be patient.  Time will help.

Patience.  Not one of my strengths.  I want to charge in, take the cure, be back to “normal,” whatever that is.  I never want to forget Mark, and that won’t happen, but it would be so great to be able to see beyond the murky horizon that this brain fog has created.

The counselor’s message:  “When you have mental conversations with yourself, talk to yourself the way that you would talk to a friend.  Don’t be judgmental.  If a friend was in your situation, you’d be supportive and forgiving.  You need to be that way with yourself.”

I can tell there’s some wisdom there.

Recently I talked with an acquaintance who has trodden a similar life path. Five years ago, Kathleen lost her husband to a horrible cancer, after he battled it for 14 months.  Now, she’s in a new home and has a new committed relationship, and she seems so settled and balanced.

We met for happy hour at a local restaurant.  “How did you get through it?”  I asked her, as we sat at the bar and sipped our wine.

Kathleen thought about that for a while before answering.  “Three things helped me.  First, yoga, for the breathing practice.  Second, I found a personal trainer, and I still work with him though it’s expensive, to take care of my body.  Third, for a while I saw a counselor regularly, so I had someplace to go and just cry.”

Then she paused.  “And of course, most important, was being patient with myself.”

That patience thing again…

I feel like I’m treading water, but I guess I don’t have the personal resources to swim forward yet.  I’m trying to avoid making mistakes.  Another piece of advice I’ve been given:  “Don’t make any important decisions for at least a year.”  That’s good advice too, I sense, though after your spouse’s death you’re forced to make a lot of important decisions right away, whether you want to or not.  

I guess my plan is, for a while, not to have a plan.  That is so not me.  I’ll try to be patient.  Grief will take its own fine time, and it won’t be rushed.  Right now I can believe in my head that joy must still be out there somewhere, but my heart denies it.  I’ll try to be patient and wait for my heart to catch up.

My brain fog is lifting, little by little, although this isn’t a linear process.  Sometimes I still am so forgetful.  I also tire quickly and unpredictably, and I find myself from time to time sitting in a chair, staring into space, bewildered and confused by my life.  Fortunately, Hospice warned me to expect all these symptoms, so I know I’m grieving, and not losing my mind.

And slowly, I’m getting done what needs to be done.  I recently sold Mark’s car.  I’d never sold a car before, but friends gave me good advice and I did my research, so I muddled through the process.  It made no sense to keep the car, but it was emotionally difficult to peel away another piece of Mark.  He loved the car, and everything about the car reminded me of him. I sold it to a friend who is thrilled to have it, and it was comforting to me to think that Mark would have approved.

But then I wondered, why do I feel this way?

What do we owe to the dead?  Some years ago, I read an article asserting that we owe the dead nothing.  We do our best for those we love and those to whom we have obligations while they’re alive.  But after they’re gone, they’re no longer a part of our world, which continues to change and evolve.  So, the author argued, the living are free to behave as they will, in accord with their own needs and conscience, without regard to what the dead would have wanted.

I recall that the article focused mostly on deathbed promises, the vows made to a dying loved one.  Picture the young son, grasping his mother’s hands as she whispers out her last words:  Promise you’ll never abandon the family business.  Promise you’ll never marry that horrible girl.  Promise that you’ll take care of Toto.  Yes, he says, yes.  Anything to give her comfort in her final hour.  But how seriously must he take those promises after she passes?

I made no such promises, nor did Mark ask me to make any.  Mark rarely imposed his judgment on any of my decisions while he was living, so wherever he might be, I don’t imagine that he’s passing judgment on them now .  Yet I find myself imagining his reaction to my actions, as if I should take his opinions into consideration, and I find these imagined reactions quite compelling.

Years ago, Mark’s mother and my mother passed away within a few months of one another.  Mark and I each received an inheritance.  We decided to use them to pay off our house mortgage.  I remember that our decision was reinforced by our confidence that our mothers would have found this a good use of this money, even though we didn’t imagine them hovering above watching us.  Making a decision that we thought was in line with our mothers’ values was comforting and reassuring to us.  

The truth, I believe, is not that it’s a matter of obligation, moral or otherwise, to consider what the dead would want or feel about what we do.  As I think it through, I believe it’s a way of keeping those dear to us close and honoring them, even when they’re gone.  Perhaps it’s our way of extending their time with us, through our recognition that although our loved ones are gone, we’ve incorporated some of who they were into the core of ourselves.

This is a true story.  Since Mark died, I’ve held this story close and, until now, only shared it with a few trusted friends.  

As a fiction writer, I know that “it really happened” doesn’t count for anything.  Most likely, if I included this story in a fictional account, readers would scoff and find it implausible.  Simply not credible.

But this isn’t fiction.  This is what happened.  Make of it what you will.

Mark died at 8:40 in the morning.  I was by his bedside.  He hadn’t spoken in over 24 hours, and seemed unaware of anyone’s presence.  His breathing was labored, his eyes half open but unseeing, until finally his breathing stopped.

Hospice and the funeral home were called, and Chris came home from work.  Chris and I sat with Mark while we waited for the funeral home attendants to arrive, which took about two hours.  

Two men in poorly fitted black suits arrived.  They looked like thugs but they seemed kind.  They murmured, “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” a phrase that would be directed at me with great regularity in the weeks to come.  After I signed some paperwork, they brought in a gurney and undertook the task of removing Mark.  It took some time.  The gurney was awkward to negotiate around corners and through doorways.  Finally, they wheeled Mark out.  He was encased in an opaque zippered bag.  

Chris and I sat on the living room couch.  My world had just shattered and I wasn’t sure what to do.  I told Chris, “I’m going to make some coffee” and we both moved into the kitchen.

Suddenly, we heard music.  I looked at Chris, puzzled.  I realized the music was coming from my pocket, from Mark’s phone, which I had been carrying with me.  The phone was password locked.

The song was one I had never heard before, and I’m assuming it was streaming from a Pandora station.  It was “The Barricades of Heaven” written by Jackson Brown, and sung by Mark Knoffler, Mark’s favorite performer.  Even played on the tinny tones of the IPhone, it was beautiful.

As I held the phone in my hand and Chris and I listened to the song, the air around us suffused with Mark’s presence.  I cannot explain it, but I was drenched in utter joy.  I remember smiling.  For a few very brief moments, Mark surrounded us in love, and then, just as suddenly, he was gone.

Recently I asked Chris, my very rational and logical son, what he thought happened in those few moments.  He paused and answered, “I have no idea.”

The song lyrics are about yearning, and childhood, and the passage of time.  In part:

“…
Childhood comes for me at night
Voices of my friends
Your face bathing me in light
Hope that never ends
…

Make of it what you will.

Comfort and sorrow, intertwined

Mark died a month ago.  Already my world is changing.  I no longer forget that Mark is gone, only to remember an instant later in a stab of pain, as I did during the first two weeks.  I no longer look forward to telling Mark about something I’ve seen or heard, only to be slapped with the sudden realization that I’ll never be able to do that again.  My heart still aches because he isn’t here to enjoy this wonderful summer in Seattle, the long hot days of sunshine, the hummingbirds, the yards in bloom.  If he were here, he’d be spending early mornings at the golf course, practicing his swing, and later we’d wander off together to a sidewalk table at one of our local restaurants for happy hour and conversation.  He deserved this summer, and I’m heartbroken that he didn’t live long enough to savor it.  

I’d been dreading the trip to the funeral home to pick up Mark’s ashes.  My friend Joyce offered to come with me, but I kept putting it off because I fully expected that the trip would catapult me into despair.  But then, while I was out on another errand, I realized that I was only three blocks from the funeral home.  Why not, I thought, just do it now?

The quiet, modest front room, with its displays of caskets and urns, was empty except for one solemn attendant.  I signed to acknowledge receipt of the ashes.  The attendant opened a wall cabinet in the showroom, shuffling through packages, then finding and presenting me with a sealed box with Mark’s information taped on the front.  He put the box of Mark’s ashes in a handled tote bag, the funeral home’s name embossed in gold on the front, and handed the bag to me.  

But instead of the despair I expected, I wanted to laugh. Mark’s physical remains were presented to me like a heavy box of chocolates, in a nice swanky shiny bag.  I know Mark would have laughed too.  The gift bag of ashes rested in the back seat while I drove home, and then I pushed it deep into one of the den cupboards.  At some future time, Mark’s sister and I will scatter Mark’s ashes.  I know that Mark’s essence still exists, somewhere, but I’m darned sure that nothing of Mark is left in the tidy little box in my den.  

The condolence cards were another hurdle.  They dropped into my mailbox in twos and threes, in heavy white and ivory envelopes.  I appreciated the sentiment and the caring that they represented, but I couldn’t face them right away.  I knew that they’d contain messages about how wonderful Mark was (and he was) and how special our relationship had been (and that was true).  I piled them into a bowl on the dining table, waiting for a time when reading those messages wouldn’t feel like ripping a bandage off a still-raw wound.

When my dear friend Lisa visited from Alaska, we sat down at the table with glasses of a fine chardonnay.  With Lisa by my side, I pulled the cards out, one by one, and read them.  They were heartfelt, and evocative, and sad.  Although some did make me cry, the cards reminded me of Mark’s importance to so many people, and also of the gracious gift of love and support that I’ve received from so many.  A little painful, yes, but the comfort they afforded outweighed the sorrow.

This mix of sorrow and comfort is all around me.  Standing at Mark’s end of the closet, where his clothes still hang, is almost more than I can bear, yet I can’t stay away.  His clothes still hold his essence, a faint scent.  Chris tells me that Mark asked him to help me dispose of his clothes, at some point.  He told Chris that he didn’t want me creating a mausoleum from his things.  Fair enough, but not yet.  Right now, I can bury my nose in the vest he wore whenever the weather turned nippy, and for the briefest of moments, he’s back with me.

The hardest moments are the ones that take me by surprise.  Chris and I decided that Chris should use Mark’s phone, since Mark had a recent model and Chris’ is a dinosaur.  Before engaging the function that would wipe it clean, I flipped through the pictures on the phone, most of which I’d sent to Mark.  But then, I found a video that Mark had made, who knows why, of our cat.  In the background was Mark’s voice talking to the cat, coaxing him to look at the camera.  Mark’s voice.  It was terrible to hear, and it was wonderful to hear.  Sorrow and comfort.

The new chair was the trigger today.

On one of the nights that Mark was very restless, I slept on our sofa sleeper.  The next day, with impressions of its support bars imprinted on my back, I was determined to find a better alternative for our guest space.  One of Mark’s and my last excursions was a visit to a furniture store to buy a replacement.

Mark was very weak but enthusiastic about the shopping trip.  We walked slowly, stopping often, and he sat down as soon as we entered the store.  Although we were only looking for a sofa, Mark fell in love with a very spiffy rolling office chair and insisted that we buy it for me.  I’d been using a dining room chair in our office, but no, Mark was adamant, we had to buy this chair.  He couldn’t wait for it to arrive because it was going to be so comfortable—I was going to love it, he said.

Well, the chair arrived today.

This widowhood business is tricky.  The first week was ghastly.  My son Chris and I were both exhausted and in shock.  I suspect I have some version of PTSD, because the images of those last hours, as Mark’s unconscious labored breaths came further and further apart as I held his hand, are seared into my brain.  The images surface night and day, over and over again.

But the second week was almost worse, in a different way.  I’d be folding laundry, or driving to the grocery store, and I’d forget for the moment that Mark is gone.  And then I’d remember, and the pain would resurface anew, like a fresh cut.  Chris told me that he was having similar experiences.  

Widowhood.  Certainly not a unique state of being.  According to the US Census Bureau,  “Nearly 700,000 women lose their husbands each year and will be widows for an average of 14 years.”  The United Nations reports that at least 245 million women around the world have been widowed.  The condition may be common, but it is devastating:  On the Holmes and Rahe stress scale, death of a spouse is ranked as the number one stressor.  

Unless we’ve had the terrible misfortune to be widowed more than once, I don’t think most of us have any handy template for this life change.  I don’t have any model to follow for becoming a “successful widow.”  In fact, when I think “widow,” I think of Queen Victoria, the consummate drama queen widow who, after losing her beloved husband Prince Albert, lived in deep mourning, avoiding public appearances and wearing only black, for the following 40 years until her death.  As terribly sad as I feel now, that just doesn’t sound like me.

Short-term, there’s plenty to do to occupy my time.  A staggering list of administrative tasks awaits, involving estates, death certificates, bank accounts, credit cards, titles and the organization of the medical bills which are still arriving.  Some tasks I can’t manage yet:  A large bowl of unopened condolence cards sits on the dining room table.  Although I so appreciate the love and support represented by that pile of cards, I can’t face them quite yet.  

I spent some time with my dear friend who is an estate planning lawyer.  I asked her what I should watch out for, as I start my travel through this new land.  Without hesitation, she responded, “Predatory men.”

Yikes!  That’s the last thing I was worried about (and just about the last thing I’ve been thinking about).  Predatory men?  It brings to mind a cartoon villain with a foxy face and a handlebar mustache, hunched over in a bad black suit, conspiring to rob me of the deed to the family farm.  I’ll think I’ll put that particular worry aside for now.

Now I’m more focused on making it through each day.  Sorrow is my constant travel companion, but it ebbs and flows.  Earlier this week I hiked in the Cascades with a group of friends.  The weather was glorious and the scenery spectacular.  I felt drawn back into the world, and that was a good thing.  But there are times when the crush of grief is overwhelming.  

Each night before I go to sleep I try to focus on at least one positive thing in my life, and really, there are so many.  My son is here and is a great help.  I’m in my own home and unlike many other widows, I don’t have to worry about losing it.  I have wonderful friends who have stepped up to help me, walking with me, meeting me for meals—even writing Mark’s obituary for me, because I just couldn’t do it.  I have much to be grateful for.

Which brings me back to that office chair.  My husband who loved me bought me that chair.  Right now, sitting in the new chair has unleashed the grief again, but the tears will pass.   It is a truly wonderful chair.

The End of this Chapter

Mark passed away three days ago.  

His final decline advanced much more quickly than we had anticipated.  His fervent desire was to die at home, and we accomplished that, with the help of hospice.

In the end, it was just the two of us.  I held his hand as the intervals between his breaths became longer and longer, and then there was no more breath.

Who will kill the spiders?

The so-called “Murphy’s Law” is the adage that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

I don’t buy it.  Yet, sometimes, our best-laid plans slide sideways.

After Mark was admitted to the hospital about ten days ago, we waited for endoscopy results to see if they would reveal any clue about why his nausea was so unrelenting.  Despite multiple anti-nausea medications, he couldn’t eat or drink anything without vomiting it back up almost immediately.  He was wraith-thin and needed IV hydration.

In hospitals, it seems as if nothing moves very quickly.  The morning after the endoscopy, I went early to the hospital, to wait with Mark for the doctors to tell us the results.

We waited.  The nurse paged the doctors.  We waited longer.  The nurse paged the doctors again, but said she had no idea when they’d actually appear.  We waited another couple of hours.  Mid-day, I dashed home for a few minutes and, sure enough, that’s when the hospital team appeared in Mark’s room.

And so it turned out that Mark himself, in a remarkably cheerful voice on the phone, told me that the doctors said that there was no more treatment to be undertaken.  The tumors had invaded Mark’s stomach, and his stomach no longer functioned.  His stomach was destroyed.  “It’s the end game,” he said.

It’s a cliche, but there are moments when time really does stand still.  I can see myself, absolutely frozen in the bathroom, holding my cell phone, staring into the mirror, having no idea what I was going to do next.

Dr. T, one of the hospitalists, called me a few minutes later.  He explained the test results in more detail, including why a feeding tube into Mark’s stomach or IV hydration wasn’t going to work.  There were long silences in our conversation.  To his credit, he didn’t rush me.

Of course there is always the biggest question, the question you don’t want to ask but have to:  How long does he have?

Dr. T didn’t have a good answer.  That’s the question, he explained, that doctors are really bad about answering.  He said maybe six months; no, maybe three months, maybe less.

We won’t get our year together after all.

And so it seems we’ve turned the final corner, though all we really know is that in the not too distant future, Mark won’t be here.  We have to focus on saying what needs to be said, to each other and to the people we care about.  Mark has to be made as comfortable as possible in the coming weeks and months.

During these past months, denial has been my best friend, and I haven’t looked the future full in the face.  We knew from the initial diagnosis that the prognosis was grim.  Statistically, Mark had a death sentence from the very beginning.  But up to this point, I always held out the sliver of hope that the next treatment would work, that a new drug cocktail would be the one to do the trick.  

I just can’t imagine life without Mark.  We are like two trees that have intertwined and grown together, leaning on each other, through all these years.  I’m a capable woman.  I can file my taxes and manage my money and keep my household.  But what about all the small things that have tied us together all these years, that have made the two of us into a “we?”

I mean, who will kill the spiders?

I am not terrified of spiders but I don’t like them.  As long as they stay outside, I can ignore them.  But when they invade the house, I always shriek for Mark, who comes running with a paper towel and a smirk on his face to dispatch the offensive critter.  My hero.

I guess I can learn to kill my own spiders.  But I’m not sure I’ll ever really believe, when I turn over in sleep late at night, that Mark isn’t right there with me, just a touch away.