November 13, 2014

Bill and I were lucky: for most of our lives together, we both were healthy. But there were some medical procedures.  When I had foot surgery twice, Bill was in the waiting room during the operations. He was there to hold my hand when the stitches came out. When I had a run-in with a wheelbarrow, Bill took me to the doctor and held my hand while the doctor stitched the v-shaped wound. We drove each other to colonoscopy appointments. He sympathized with all my dental procedures, while shaking his head at the costs.

And then came the night the tumor ruptured. It had been growing for years on Bill’s liver. When it ruptured, the cancerous cells scattered throughout his abdominal cavity and found new homes. I drove him to the emergency room, stayed by his bedside through the long night, waited while the surgeons operated. I went with him to all his appointments with the oncologist. He enrolled in a clinical trial at a nearby VA hospital, more to help with cancer research than with any expectation that the trial might benefit him. I went with him to most of those appointments. And I was by his side in our home, holding his hand, when he drew his last breath.

I thought of all of this yesterday, when I had laser surgery on a vein in my left leg. I missed Bill. I missed his holding my hand. I missed the love in his eyes.