Widowed

One year ago today, she lost the love of her life.  By all accounts, he was her rock and her best friend, the only love that she had ever had. At his wake, she was a broken woman: she seemed to have lost as much weight as he had and her coloring somehow seemed worse. Inconsolable, with a flood of tears streaming down her cheeks, she would sporadically fall to her knees at his open casket. She was empty, lost.

In the fall of 2008, he began to experience severe headaches. By Christmas he was traveling to Duke, Johns Hopkins, Cleveland Clinic, Sloan Kettering and Mass General in search of a cure that did not exist. Regardless of physician or facility, the answer was the same: surgery and radiation. He would later spend the spring of 2009 in Boston receiving treatment.

From December 2008 through October 2010, she was amazing. The woman who had once needed him for stability found the strength and resolve to be there for him in ways that no one knew she was capable of. She was his Eleanor Twitchell.  Her support and optimism was unwavering, her enthusiasm contagious. For him, she made each day a gift, every day rewarding. Never doubting his resiliency, she gave him everything, and left nothing for herself.

I waited 85 minutes to show my respects. When it was my turn, I could only give her a hug and tell her I loved her. What else could I say to a 29 year old widow?

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