The author's wife died of cancer.
Courtesy of the author
My wife of 26 years died on April 3, 2021, in our home on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. She was 51. With my arms wrapped around her and my head lying on her chest, listening to her heart take its last beat, I could feel my heart stop at the same time. I have no recollection of the immediate days following her death. I know my sister took me to her house, and I am pretty sure she fed me, but I cannot tell you what I did, who I spoke with, or even whether I slept.The first real memory I have is of returning to our home a few days later. This I remember clearly. I walked through the door, and the silence overcame me. I sat down on the floor, barely passing through the entryway, and cried. The warmth and comfort I had felt for 15 years every time I walked through the door was gone. In its place was a cold, jarringly quiet place filled only with the memories of Lori's last days. I am not sure how long I sat there, but I do recall that a neighbor at some point put their hand on my shoulder, asked if I needed anything, and then quietly closed the door. It was then that I realized I no longer had a home.I traveled every weekend to get awayI started traveling every weekend. Not exotic travel. Rather, I asked friends and family if I could just stay with them for a couple of days. I promised not to be in the way or even to need anything. To be honest, I did not want to interact with anyone and was just hoping to be left alone. But being alone in Lori's and my apartment was exponentially worse than being left alone in someone else's home. I could feel the warmth and comfort walking into someone else's home, but not my own.
