My dearest husband,

I love you, and God how I miss you. I saw a television show the other night and they talked about how you should write a letter to someone who has died to help deal with unresolved emotions. I know all that stuff but when it became a reality for me, I just didn’t know what to do. I have these thoughts that go on in my head day and night and I should put them down somewhere. I feel that if I write them, I will lose you. I know that is not true but my heart hurts so.

I’ll probably ramble all over the place because I think of everything, from the time we met until we had to say goodbye. Mary Ellen introduced us, and I will always be grateful she did. Right from day one you were so strong in mind and body and yet so gentle. I had so many problems in my life and later I found out you did too, but you always managed to put me first.

Remember our first apartment. You made the arrangements without talking to me. You just said we were going to live together. I was such a mess that I just followed. I know you remember that I was a lousy cook in the beginning but you ate everything. Thank God I eventually learned how. You told me you loved me after only a couple of weeks. I told you that you would wait a long time for me to say that. That didn’t bother you. I was afraid to love, everything I knew about love did not feel safe, you made me feel safe.

My sons, Chris and Dave, were 7 and 4 years old. They became your sons in all the ways that mattered. Because of all the problems I had that revolved around my drinking, sometimes you were their whole world. I don’t know if I ever thanked you for just being there for my, no our, children when I could not. I am sorry to say that you and I both know that this was a lot more than I care to remember. I know we had bad times but even the worst fade when I think about you. I love you. I like saying it and I miss saying it to you.

People tell me that I am strong—maybe I am. If that is true, it’s because I had the freedom in our marriage to grow. I thought that when we were going through the first stages of my recovery from alcohol that would be the most difficult time in our lives. It wasn’t, only because we were together.

The day we found out you were ill, it was our wedding anniversary. Oh yeah, remember our wedding. The kids stood up for us and then Chris got mad because he could not go with us afterwards. We should have taken them along—you got sick, said it was dinner. I knew it was fear. We argued about that for years.

There have been a lot of people in our lives, not one of them has ever made me feel as safe and confident as you always did. I’m scared right now but when I think about you, I work through it.

We got to see two of our kids married. Jere, well, he will get there. My God, he is so much like you. I found a lot of comfort in that in the first few days after you were gone. The day we found out about the cancer, I can say the word now, we were oblivious to the fact that our world was about to cave in. We even prepared ourselves for a situation of your having had a mild stroke and as you put it, we would cope.

I was so frightened, God knows you must have been terrified. Yet, you would not let me see you cry. In fact, you asked me outside the medical building why I was falling apart. You said I had to straighten up because if you could handle it, so could I.

Did you know after that, when I wanted to cry, I would go upstairs and put my face in a pillow so you could not hear me. You probably let yours out when I was out of the house—I hope so anyway. I have done a lot of mini crying as I call it. Nothing gut level but I know it is there trying to get out. I hate this grieving stuff, it seems so selfish. I think of all the reasons I want you alive and most of them are about me. I like the way you took care of me and let me think I was taking care of myself. I knew you were a good husband, I told you I loved you—just wish I had said it more often.

I long for the times we use to pat each other on the rear end when we would pass each other going from one room to the other. Remember how we would lock the door on a Friday night and not go out again until Monday morning. I miss our little world we lived in. I am also angry for you, John. The fact that you never got to do what you wanted to do. You know—buy that boat. I kept telling you to but you wouldn’t because I did not know how to swim. I told you I would wave to you from the dock. I’m glad we got to take the vacation we took. When we went on our first trip—it was so far away, St. Kitts. When I saw it on the map, I said I could not go that far. That changed quickly because I knew then what I know now—that I would go to the end of the earth with you and back again. Never a doubt. I’m also angry because you never asked for much, and I hope and pray that as your family we gave you some of what you needed.

When you were sick, I did not know if I could take care of you. Love really gives you a strange kind of power. I could feel your cancer—as I gave you back rubs I could feel it move on to another spot. We quietly and lovingly lied to each other when that happened.

You know I cannot forget your warped sense of humor. Those corny jokes you told. You did not lose your sense of humor while you were ill. I distinctly remember being in Wegmans and while we were in the paper goods aisle, you said, I have been meaning to tell you that for the past 25 years you have been putting the toilet paper on the wrong way. Everyone in that aisle started laughing and they did not realize you were serious. You told me you felt better after you had said that. Well, having my spouse tell me his biggest complaint after 25 years was putting the toilet paper on the the wrong way was the greatest news I ever heard. If you could dwindle all our problems down to that, what greater love had I. Then there is the time I gave you a whistle to use to call me when you needed me. I was upstairs, you blew on that thing so hard I almost broke my neck getting down to the first floor. When I got there, our son Dave was falling over with laughter as you said, I just wanted to show him how it worked. You took care of Chris too—thinking of something for him to do for you. You made up that story about needing him to take the air conditioner out of the window. You did not want him to feel left out because he was not living as close to us as Dave. You were concerned how he would feel later if he had not done something for you. Jere, well the two of you shared several private moments that I wished had been longer.

We had several home aides and you didn’t pull any punches there either. I guess that’s what made it all seem like a dream. You kept on fighting so I never thought it would end. The supervising nurse said they talked about us at the office because we were so close. You always said it was nothing special our relationship—we always did for each other. They meant the fact you put me first even to the end. I guess if you are going to have something rub off, love is the best thing.

I always liked looking into your eyes and telling you how I loved the fact that they were such a wonderful blue. The cancer took the blue out of your eyes but I still remember.

I wish I had more time to take care of you—I thought I did. Even when the doctor told me to call hospice and I took you home from the hospital, I thought we had more time. I guess I watched too many old movies.

I wanted to be able to say goodbye in a different way. That’s a lie. I never wanted to say goodbye. I did not want to have memories of Hospice telling me, your husband is significantly declining. I wanted them to do something. Instead, sometime before 4 a.m. on April 4, 1995, I was holding you and listening to sounds that I had never heard before and never want to hear again. I have since learned that they call that the death rattle. It was not my idea of saying goodbye. I told you I loved you, the kids and I would be all right. I said that because I felt you needed to hear it to let go. I wanted to scream, John, please don’t leave me—don’t go. But, I thank God every day for those few moments. When the sound stopped, I still held your hand.

It is six years now. Our children and grandchildren, you would be proud of. Me, well I am sure you’ve been watching and probably shaking your head. I will get better, just give me a little more time.

I have loved you and still love you so much that my heart hurts. I was blessed and know that I am still blessed with our family. Somehow that does not replace your being beside me, telling me to put my cold feet on yours. You always said I love you—even when we had a fight. I still tell you I love you before I go to sleep because I believe you can hear me. It’s the cold feet that I can’t do anything about. I always pictured us as this old, old couple and people wondering what we were doing together—just as they had for the past 25 years. And, we would do as we always had, smile like we had the world’s best kept secret. We did have a secret John—it was not being afraid to love each other as hard as we did and, as we do.

I can’t let go completely yet—I wrote you this letter when two years had passed. Then, I had to read it again, shed a few more tears and decide to share it with others. I thank God everyday for bringing you into my life and I work very hard at not being angry with him for taking you out of it. Please, please, please know that no one except God could love you more.

Goodbye for now my husband—keep an eye out for me.

Your wife yesterday, today and always.

Mich