Twelve Lonely Weeks

It's been twelve weeks since my life mate died – twelve lonely weeks that I've spent wishing he were here, wishing that we had our life back, wishing that he hadn't been sick so mcuh.

I'm beginning to understand, though, that to wish things were different is to negate the wisdom, courage, and determination with which he faced his life and death. Until the very end when he was imprisoned in bed by drugs (they did not know how else to handle his terminal restlessness – the restlessness that...