Taking Care

This story contains themes of death and dying. Reader discretion is advised.

Tell me, John, once and for all. Did you refuse medical care because you wanted to die?

The pain was overwhelming. It was sucking all the joy out of my

life. That is not the way I wanted to live. I wanted to enjoy my time with you and the kids, and after a while, I couldn’t even do that.

Maybe a doctor could have helped you. I never would have given up the search. I would have hunted the rest of my life so we could bring you to a doctor who is successful with chronic pain. In the meantime, the pain hid your heart condition, and we could have gotten that taken care of too. You gave up.

Not exactly. I fought with every ounce of my being until the

end. I was just fighting the wrong thing.

What about all the things we were able to resolve before you died? Sometimes, I wonder if you did this because you were planning for your death.

You said it yourself. Sometimes, I followed my instincts, and I

don’t know what drove them a lot of times. My instincts in this case drove me to resolving everything with you. This way, all that was left was love and forgiveness at the end.

I haven’t forgiven you yet for dying on me and the kids.

I know.

I think I have the best reason for being angry.

I know. But, now, you are free.

I didn’t want to be free from you. I wanted to simply continue to enjoy your company.

Don’t cry. Haven’t you done enough of that?

Shut up.

Now I get to take care of your instead of you taking care of me.

My death freed you of constantly having to work. I am always here. I will always support you. It’s my turn to take care of you.

I hear you moving things around the room every night, right around where I keep your ashes. It’s either that, or we have some big rats.

Hahah! Giant rats. Yeah, that’s it.

How do I know that this is even you? I could be wishing this conversation was real. If I told anyone how much I really talk to you every day, like you’re still here, they would probably think I am just a poor, old widow hallucinating from grief.

None of that is true. Do you know what is true?

Hmmm?

My love for you. The fact that I am still here. It’s real.

It doesn’t help that I am still mad at you.

I know. I hope I can help you get over that one day.

It’s just frustrating. I want to be aware of you all the time, like you’re still here, and it hasn’t been happening like that. Every day, I feel you slipping farther and farther away. I feel farther from you, at least.

I’m not. I’m just a thought away. I transitioned. You have to

transition with me. You have to adjust. I know you’re not happy with it, but it’s our reality at the moment.

I am afraid if I heal, I won’t hear you anymore. I am afraid that if I heal, you’ll be gone.

I won’t be. You’ll be able to connect with me more strongly.

Grief is the process of letting go. A lot of times, people hang onto their

sadness and anger because they are afraid of letting go of the last thing they have from that person, the sadness over the loss. It’s just an illusion created by the sadness part of grief.

What if I remarry?

I will share you. Haven’t I always?

…

It’s good to see you laugh a bit.

You have always been funny.

Our connection during life was strong. That connection doesn’t

die when the body dies. Love and memories are the only things that remain after death. I will always be here with you. I will always love you.

I am sorry that my love for you couldn’t save you. I prayed every day.

I am saved. I have no more pain. It just wasn’t in a physical

sense, like you wanted. Unfortunately, it was not possible to save my broken body. It was too far gone.

I know. I don’t like this. This sucks so badly. I used to think I could handle anything.

You can.

I’m having a lot of trouble handling your death.

I know.

We were supposed to grow really old together. I’m still going to kill you when I get to heaven for dying so early.

I know that too. You would tell me that every once in a while:

If you die first, I’ll kill you.

At the time, it seemed funny. Now, not so much.

I’m sorry. When you die, and we are together, you can kill me if

it makes you feel better.

See? You said you weren’t a writer like me, but you just created the perfect example of verbal irony. … I’m sorry you couldn’t live out your dreams.

I appreciate everything you did to help support me. Besides,

those dreams were just things I personally enjoyed doing, so they weren’t real dreams. My real dream was you and the kids. … Stop crying. You’ll get a headache again.

Too late.

My love, I have a wish for you. I hope that every time you think

of me, you’ll smile and laugh instead of cry.

I will try my dear husband. I will try. I promise.

You were right in a sense. There were days I wanted to die because the pain was so bad.

Yeah. J. J. told me you said that to him one day over a decade ago, when he was still a kid. He kept that secret for you all these years, waiting until after your death to share it with me. That wasn’t fair to him, you sharing that with him.

I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell my best friend, you.

I can see why.

How many people tried to break us apart?

Many.

I wouldn’t even allow the pain to drive us apart. I stuck around for as long as I possibly could.

…

You’re doing great with the kids.

Thanks. It’s easy. I just think of what you would do, and I do it. It seems to be the right call every single time.

Get some sleep, now. You have an early day tomorrow.

Okay. I will. Goodnight, my love.

I’ll see you and love you, always and forever.