Needing To Stay, Wanting To GoMy husband of 31 years died in my arms on January 24, 2013.
His was a short, terrible illness, with multiple surgeries, interventions, and the misery of my reserved husband having to give over his privacy and modesty to the wonderful staff who assisted in his care. The staff loved him, and I loved them for loving him.
We had no children, which was a great sorrow to me. He was not troubled by this, as he always said "You are the best thing that ever happened to me. If it is only just us, that will be enough."
I just want to be with him. He was my joy, my deepest love, my true heart mate. He was the smartest, kindest, most logical and moral man I have ever met, and that is saying something!
I would never put my elderly parents and his even more elderly father (95 years old the day after my husband's funeral) through the trauma of having me commit suicide; I am their guardian, and I must stay here to keep them safe.
I would also not want to burden local health care workers and police with having to deal with my suicide.
I get up each day, make a few calls to sort out our affairs, then go back to bed. I pray to die in my sleep.