It has been quite a while since I’ve updated my blog. Grieving the death of my husband of 34 years was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. And for a while—nearly a year—I was unable to write about anything except the grief and pain of losing him. It was such a sudden loss. He left our house to go to a board meeting and never came back.
On his way home that evening, he had a massive brain bleed. We spent 15 days in the hospital during COVID. It appeared he was improving and might survive—likely with some paralysis on the left side—but it wasn’t to be. Ten days after the first, he had another, even more massive bleed. The doctors told me there was no hope of survival. I spent five more days at his bedside, but Andy was no longer there.
Eighteen months later, I’ve discovered that life has a way of going on. And something amazing and wonderful is happening in my life now. To relate it to you properly, I have to go back 37 years to early 1985. The first man I dated after my marriage ended was a physician at Northwest Hospital in Tucson where I worked. His name is John Carter. We dated for about six months. I was in love with him extremely sad when our relationship ended.
I left my job at Northwest Hospital and went to University Medical Center where I met Andy and, two years later, we married. John and I stayed in touch—an occasional e-mail, a card on my birthday. He read my books. He even visited Andy and me in Oregon 17 years ago when he’d come to Grants Pass to visit an old buddy from high school. He and Andy took a walk together and it turned out that John Carter always knew of Andy because he did his residency at University Medical Center when Andy was one of the deans of the medical school.
When he learned of Andy’s death, John sent me a sympathy card and started checking in with more frequent e-mails. I told him a lot of things about the grief road and how rocky it was, how hard for me to let Andy go. He always wrote back, always kind and sympathetic—saying things about what a good man Andy was and how he wished he’d known him better. How glad he was that Andy had loved me so much.
As the months passed, I wrote an e-mail to John that I was doing better. That I’d turned a corner on the grief road, had packed a few boxes of Andy’s things to donate and had taken off my wedding ring. I told him I was ready to have love in my life again—though I wasn’t exactly sure how that love would manifest. At the time, I thought it would be through a kitten or a puppy.
Within minutes, I got the shock of my life. An e-mail back from John in which he said, “I missed the boat 37 years ago and I won’t miss it again. When can I see you?”
Much to my surprise, I said, “How about tomorrow?”
He flew up to Oregon from Tucson a few weeks later. We met for lunch and it was as if no time had passed. I learned that he'd saved every letter, card I'd sent to him and every photo we'd taken during those 6 months we spent together.
People are not replaceable. And I will always love Andy and miss his dynamic presence, both in the world and in my life. But I know Andy would want me to live the remainder of my days with love and happiness. John and I are together now—very much in love. We both feel as if some cosmic wrong has been righted.
Love, if it is real, doesn’t disappear. It is an infinite resource. It is forever. With that new-found happiness, I have finally been able to write again. Number 12 in the Winston Radhauser mystery series will launch on August 9th. I’m working steadily on #13. I learned recently that #11 - Lost Creek Cabin is a finalist for the RONE award for best mystery.
The photo of John and me in the middle is from 37 years ago. The other two are recent.
On his way home that evening, he had a massive brain bleed. We spent 15 days in the hospital during COVID. It appeared he was improving and might survive—likely with some paralysis on the left side—but it wasn’t to be. Ten days after the first, he had another, even more massive bleed. The doctors told me there was no hope of survival. I spent five more days at his bedside, but Andy was no longer there.
Eighteen months later, I’ve discovered that life has a way of going on. And something amazing and wonderful is happening in my life now. To relate it to you properly, I have to go back 37 years to early 1985. The first man I dated after my marriage ended was a physician at Northwest Hospital in Tucson where I worked. His name is John Carter. We dated for about six months. I was in love with him extremely sad when our relationship ended.
I left my job at Northwest Hospital and went to University Medical Center where I met Andy and, two years later, we married. John and I stayed in touch—an occasional e-mail, a card on my birthday. He read my books. He even visited Andy and me in Oregon 17 years ago when he’d come to Grants Pass to visit an old buddy from high school. He and Andy took a walk together and it turned out that John Carter always knew of Andy because he did his residency at University Medical Center when Andy was one of the deans of the medical school.
When he learned of Andy’s death, John sent me a sympathy card and started checking in with more frequent e-mails. I told him a lot of things about the grief road and how rocky it was, how hard for me to let Andy go. He always wrote back, always kind and sympathetic—saying things about what a good man Andy was and how he wished he’d known him better. How glad he was that Andy had loved me so much.
As the months passed, I wrote an e-mail to John that I was doing better. That I’d turned a corner on the grief road, had packed a few boxes of Andy’s things to donate and had taken off my wedding ring. I told him I was ready to have love in my life again—though I wasn’t exactly sure how that love would manifest. At the time, I thought it would be through a kitten or a puppy.
Within minutes, I got the shock of my life. An e-mail back from John in which he said, “I missed the boat 37 years ago and I won’t miss it again. When can I see you?”
Much to my surprise, I said, “How about tomorrow?”
He flew up to Oregon from Tucson a few weeks later. We met for lunch and it was as if no time had passed. I learned that he'd saved every letter, card I'd sent to him and every photo we'd taken during those 6 months we spent together.
People are not replaceable. And I will always love Andy and miss his dynamic presence, both in the world and in my life. But I know Andy would want me to live the remainder of my days with love and happiness. John and I are together now—very much in love. We both feel as if some cosmic wrong has been righted.
Love, if it is real, doesn’t disappear. It is an infinite resource. It is forever. With that new-found happiness, I have finally been able to write again. Number 12 in the Winston Radhauser mystery series will launch on August 9th. I’m working steadily on #13. I learned recently that #11 - Lost Creek Cabin is a finalist for the RONE award for best mystery.
The photo of John and me in the middle is from 37 years ago. The other two are recent.
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