Many of you who read this blog are people that I know personally or through social media. For those of you who do not fit in those categories, you know about my life, my joy, and my struggles through my writing. I’m having difficulty writing much down these days, but wanted you to know that my husband died on October 2nd. Although he had been in hospice care for 7 months, I really thought we had at least a few more weeks. But I was wrong.

Our son and I wrote Walter’s obituary while he was laid out in the living room with his mother, sister and niece hanging out with him. I kept Wally’s body for 8 hours after he died, and probably would have kept him longer. But I needed to let go at some point, I guess.

I wonder if I’ll feel any relief that the caregiving part of my life is over. Right now I don’t. I just want to talk to my husband. I want to hear him laugh. I want him to make me laugh.

Instead I just talk to his chair. In my head I can hear him responding to me. Each night and morning, I carry the pillow he died on and hold it to my chest like a teddy bear. I’m not sure why I thought I wouldn’t hurt as much and as deeply as I do. Denial, I suppose? This is more horrible than I ever imagined. There were times when I didn’t want to be married, times when I wanted to live alone. But when your spouse of nearly three decades is no longer on the planet, it doesn’t matter what I wanted before. I just want him here for a little bit longer.

But I don’t get that. Our son doesn’t get that either.

I miss you, Wally. I love you.