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"In sickness and in health, til death do us part." Those were the words he and I repeated in turn after the minister, 23 years ago. They were just words, spoken hurriedly, to get through the ceremony, to become man and wife, to begin our life, which stretched decades ahead of us.
We lived, we loved. There were so many firsts; first house, first car, our firstborn; a daughter, my parents first grandchild. The second child, our first and only son. My husband was first in his entire family to graduate from college. Life was good, life was forever.

We worked, we prospered, our children grew up. They were the best, the smartest, the cutest kids and we carried pictures to prove it. We attended school plays, chorus concerts, cross country meets, baseball games, both children's graduations. There were hundreds of photos, hours of videos, recording everyday life, family vacations and special events. The future beckoned.

Day 1: He and I sat, side by side, scared witless, on hard plastic chairs in an impersonal exam room, waiting for the doctor to tell us the biopsy results. And they weren't good. It was cancer. "Surgery, chemo and radiation" he said, "Let me give you some phone numbers."

Day 363: He slept, a drug induced sleep, in his recliner. For the first time he wasn't restless. The Hospice nurse bent over his chest, listening intently. Her eyes were weary. "He won't make the night", she said as she turned away. "You know how to reach me."

We waited, myself, the children, his brother and my best friend, his Oncology nurse. Counting the breaths, listening to the rattle. And then the last breath. No more. No struggle. No pain. Silence. I listened through the stethoscope. It was over. He was finally at peace. "I love you" I said as I kissed his forehead for the last time. His brother and I walked beside the gurney to the waiting hearse. I held his brother as he wept.

The next days were a blur; funeral arrangements, viewing, memorial service. Visitors brought food, flowers and compassion. Friends answered the phone. Condolence cards piled up, unopened, in the basket. Kleenex boxes were on every flat surface in the house. The next weeks were filled with calls to insurance companies for claims, to banks for transfer of accounts. The estate was probated. Bills arrived and were paid. These things I could handle.

But what can I do about his toothbrush, his razor in the bathroom, his socks in the drawer, his work shoes by the door? His keys on the microwave? His book and glasses beside his chair. How can I ignore the scent of his deodorant, the smell of his aftershave?

One afternoon, I sat on the porch, unconsciously listening for the sound of his truck coming down the street. And the fist of loneliness slammed into my stomach when I realized he wasn't coming home from work. Ever again.

Weeks stretch to months. Some days are good, some are bad. I get through my birthday. Valentine's Day. Our Anniversary. So many other days that were special, just to us.

I still can't watch the news or a Braves game. Songs on the radio wrench my heart. I cry as I drive through a town filled with memories. The tears flow down my cheeks, drip on my shirt.

How long will the grief last? I don't know. How will I cope with it? God will give me the strength and courage I need. I take it one day at a time, sometimes one hour at a time. It is so very hard without him. I miss him so much. He will be in my heart for the rest of my life.

Til death do we meet again.

Learn more about this author, Dianne Stagner.
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