It is 4 a.m., and I am lying on a sofa 5 feet from my wife Sharon’s hospital bed, listening to her breathe. I have learned in the past few weeks to tell the difference between the sounds that mean she is resting and the sounds that mean she needs me. Tonight she is resting. I close my eyes and think about the man I used to be, and the man I am becoming, and the distance between the two.I took my last drink in December 2022. There was no intervention, no exterior pressure, no dramatic bottom. It was just a decision I made to retire that chapter of my life and focus on giving Sharon what she deserved: a sober me.I was not a nice person after a few glasses of wine. I spoke derogatorily to her, often blaming her for my drinking.“If you’d stop hounding me, I would stop altogether.”I spent too much time and money with my drinking buddies instead of being home with her. The sad truth is that for too long, in the hierarchy of my life, I put alcohol before my wife.The author and Sharon on their wedding day (Nov. 8, 1990).Courtesy of Don McCormickIn 2011, I had an affair. Sharon stayed. We worked together through counseling and me doing things to give her the assurance it wouldn’t happen again: providing her with the passwords to my phone and computer, activating the Find Me feature, and my agreeing to stop going to bars. And it didn’t happen again. With the gift of hindsight, I now understand the main reason our marriage survived was Sharon’s ability to forgive.My wife represented everything good about humanity. She went back to school at 32 to finish her Bachelor’s degree while raising two boys, ages 7 and 5 at that time. After graduating, she mentioned almost in passing that she had made the Dean’s List. She never stopped learning. She became a practitioner in homeopathy. After her mother died in 2016, she became a volunteer ombudsman for San Diego County, serving as the eyes and ears for elderly people confined to nursing homes, investigating falls, theft, neglect, and making sure facilities were in compliance with county, state and federal laws.Sharon served the County of San Diego for eight years and received awards for outstanding service, several of which she never mentioned. Only as I was cleaning out her office one day did I find more accolades. She was far too humble to boast or make anything about her."This was several hours after the birth of our second son, Nicholas, in January 1993," the author writes.Courtesy of Don McCormickIn 2021, at 57, she enrolled in a master’s program in marriage and family therapy, and maintained a 4.0 GPA while volunteering at Hospice of the North Coast, where she offered grief counseling to families losing loved ones, or who had recently lost someone.Sharon was two classes away from graduating when she was diagnosed with metastatic malignant melanoma. She was 59 years old. It was 110 days from diagnosis to her death. She received her M.A. in marriage and family therapy posthumously.Thirteen months after I took my last drink, Sharon was diagnosed with that malignant melanoma, which had metastasized to her brain. We had been married 33 years. We had an extraordinary life together, two remarkable sons, and a love that survived things that break most marriages. We had weathered a painful chapter in 2011 and came out the other side stronger.The author with Sharon and their sons at Sharon's graduation from San Diego State University.Courtesy of Don McCormickSomewhere in those 110 days, before aphasia stole her voice, I asked Sharon if she forgave me for the pain I had caused.“Yes, a long time ago,” she responded. I regret that I had ever doubted her. I couldn’t grasp how forgiveness of that magnitude was possible. But she meant it. Sharon had always meant it. And then, watching me lift her and care for her, and stay fully, soberly present in a way I had never managed before, she told me I was a great caregiver.I cried when she said it. I cry writing it now. Forgiving myself is a work in progress.What Sharon gave me in those 110 days is exponentially greater than the day-to-day care I provided. She gave me the chance to finally be the man she had always told me I could be. She taught me what true intimacy is. She taught me how to love unconditionally, how to forgive without conditions, and how to give without mindfulness of virtue. And she taught me how unwavering faith can turn any season into spring.Sharon saw that man long before I did. And when he finally showed up, sober, fully present, on his knees beside her recliner holding her one working hand, she recognized him immediately. And I know that brought her the peace she needed to return Home."Sharon wrote this in the sand at Cardiff Beach, California, in November 2015," the author writes.Courtesy of Don McCormick"Sharon had this photo of the sand drawing she made printed and framed for our 25th wedding anniversary," the author writes.Courtesy of Don McCormickSharon died on March 24, 2024, Palm Sunday. She was wearing an oversized white sweatshirt that said, “It’s A Good Day To Have A Good Day.” I never washed it. I still can’t.The morning after she died, I started writing to her. It is my way of staying close to her, and my only means of survival in the months following her death. I have written to her nearly every day since she left — nearly 700 letters. Only recently have I had the courage to read my early letters, going back to the first one I wrote the day after she died.In the first 200 letters, I see a man so weighed down by guilt and shame that suicidal ideation was a daily contemplation. I also see a man who every day fed and walked our dogs, read scripture and shared daily devotionals with Sharon without fail. Though I never blamed God for taking her, I frequently asked why she had to leave so soon. I see how I was unable to fully comprehend, or believe in my heart, that she had truly forgiven me. It wasn’t until May of 2025, after meeting with the pastor from our church, that I finally understood. He told me in no uncertain terms that not accepting her forgiveness was not honoring her as I had promised.Caring for my wife during those 110 days taught me the true meaning of intimacy. After years of acting selfishly, I came to understand how Sharon lived her entire life — selflessly. I learned how God works through us during the most difficult of times. It was, in many ways, a way to redeem myself for my past mistakes. It was the greatest honor of my life.Sharon a few days after returning home from her first surgery (December 2023).Courtesy of Don McCormickMy grief, I have learned, is in clinical terms, complicated, or prolonged grief, along with C-PTSD stemming from a traumatic childhood that included physical, emotional and sexual abuse. Those old wounds began to hemorrhage again after Sharon passed.Today I am at a crossroads with two options. The first I will not choose. It would break the hearts of the two sons Sharon and I raised together and betray the promise I made to her to honor her all my remaining days.The second and only viable option is to seek help. I’m in therapy working on mending old wounds that surfaced when Sharon died. I’m learning new boundaries and how to carry my grief in a healthy, non-debilitating way. This work doesn’t end with a ceremony or a celebration. It’s work I’ll be doing the rest of my life. This is Sharon’s mandate to me. I want to use writing to speak to those who wonder why their grief is so severe and so enduring. Sharon spent her life serving others. The best way I can honor her is to try to do the same.Throughout my letters, and up until this day, I question what is left for me here. The answer is our two extraordinary sons, Grayson and Nicholas, and our granddaughter, Isla, who will only know her grandmother from our stories and the way we live our lives.Sharon, I want you to know, I’m not going to quit. I am going to continue to live — but no longer for myself.The author (left) with his sons, Grayson and Nicholas (February 2026).Courtesy of Don McCormickIn honor of Sharon Lynne McCormick, October 14, 1964 – March 24, 2024.Don McCormick lives in San Diego, California. He built a software platform that was acquired by a Fortune 50 company. In the years that followed, he lost his way and, eventually, much of what he had. He has been sober since December 2022. He is not a professional writer, he is a husband and father of two who turned to writing to stay connected to his wife, Sharon, after losing her to metastatic melanoma in March 2024. This essay is part of a grief memoir that Don is currently writing.Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.