Today, October 12, would have been our 40^th wedding anniversary. I remember on our 39^th anniversary wondering if we would make it to 40, and, well, we didn’t. We found out the day before that anniversary that the damn tumor had come back. The rest of last year was a blur of traveling back and forth to Boston for scans and appointments, culminating in the second craniotomy and Mark going into a nursing/rehab home. He was home for a week before going back into the hospital with gall bladder complications.

He was supposed to go on an mRNA drug trial, which I’ve since learned has had good results, but he was too medically fragile to do it.

I truly expected him to come through the second surgery as well as he had the first, but it was not to be. Instead, he was weak and querulous, upset at himself and me by extension. He wasn’t able to do the things he waned to do and fought me constantly, asserting he could (he couldn’t). When he went into the second nursing home (not nearly as nice as the rehab hospital), I was able to visit every day and stayed for hours, even though he asked me at one point why I bothered.

We shared Thanksgiving dinner at the rehab hospital and I brought him Christmas dinner at the nursing home. Our daughter came down as frequently as she was able, but being a 911 operator, she had long hours. She was able to be there for Christmas, though she had to leave early to return to Portland. I remember him crying and telling her how much he loved us, me specifically, during one of her visits. I never thought he’d be gone so suddenly, I fully expected him to hang on for another year, at least. But it was not to be. He left me on the 5^th of January, very suddenly, too suddenly to even say goodbye.

Numb grief became my world. I had to be present to take care of things—the cats (his cat had thyroid problems), his pension, the social security benefits, a cremation to arrange, organ donation to arrange, the will and attendant paperwork to get through. Goodwill got his clothes, except for a few things, and cleaning out his closet was beyond difficult. Our daughter helped as much as she was able, but most of these things had to be done by me. She decided to quit her job and move from Portland in with me, something I appreciated because the house was just too big for me and the cats alone.

I held his memorial at the house on the first of February, what would have been his 68^th birthday. It was well-attended, many friends and neighbors coming by, bringing tons of food, the majority of which I would ultimately throw out.

With the help of his siblings, I purchased a tree in Look Park, a sapling that would be planted in his honor with a plaque. They were amenable to scattering his ashes around the root ball as it was planted, which made it his tree. It’s a red maple. When his cat died a couple of months later (she never really recovered from losing him, nor of the changes we made in the house), I scattered her ashes in the mulch around the tree, keeping them together.

Life without my husband has been difficult. I do have lots of help—friends, neighbors, his siblings, my daughter—but I miss my help-meet. Night time is the worst, the bed is too big, too cold and too empty for me to be comfortable. Now, as I look forward to possible back surgery, I miss him even more. I don’t want to live another twenty years alone, but I can’t bear the thought of loving someone the way I loved Mark.

Happy anniversary, Mark. I miss you like I’d miss my heart if it disappeared.