Rush hour is just beginning on this bleak winter day. In the watery sunshine, cars are pressing to get wherever they are going - some to warm homes and family, some to dark, smoky bars, some to crowded shops, or to the grocery store, or maybe to meet the gang at a restaurant. They are all in a hurry, looking for a chance to pass; to go faster. Work is over, they want to get to their destinations and settle back. Their minds are full of thoughts about the day, plans for the evening. They don't know that a few blocks away, nine stories up, a man lies dying.

I stand at the window surveying the scene below. The cars look like bugs scuttling along the roadway, unaware of me watching them; oblivious to the tears that burn my face like acid rain. They don't hear the silent scream that builds up in my throat, shrieking at the injustice of a life cut short.

My husband is too young to die. We have been robbed of the rest of our lives; our hopes, dreams, and plans for the future. We have never been to Paris - the city of lovers and artists, whose streets we thought we would one day walk hand in hand. We have never been to the ocean, laughing and splashing each other with salty seawater under a hot summer sun. We were supposed to have had years ahead of us to do these things , and years to spend doing the simple things we cherished so much - cuddling in bed watching movies, with a box of Twinkies and a bowl of microwave popcorn, playing Scrabble at the kitchen table, going dancing, and just holding each other, laughing and kissing.

We can't hold each other now - he lies alone in a bed filled with tubes; there is no room for me. He will never again tell me that he loves me, because the ventilator that keeps him alive with its steady hiss of breath fills his throat. He seldom opens his eyes, or responds if I squeeze his hand or stroke his face. I feel a bitter loneliness, and there is no one to turn to for comfort. Before he got sick, his arms were warm and strong; I long to be encircled in them now.

Tending the dying is a solitary lifestyle. In the beginning, people were full of sympathy - offering hugs, warm dinners, and promises that they would always be there. But as it became more real, more imminent, these friends faded away into a different world. Their lives go on. They get up in the morning and go to their jobs, then come home to their own families. Their heartfelt compassion has become polite inquiries about his health, and they really don't want to hear, because it makes them uncomfortable. Maybe it reminds them of their own mortality; maybe it's just that they know they can't really say anything, or offer any advice, so they murmur something noncommital about calling them if I need anything. What I need is to be held while I cry. I am tired of pretending to be strong, of smiling at doctors and nurses and conversing with them as if my heart isn't being torn out. I long for someone to let me be weak - just let me break down and release the shuddering sobs that are pent up in my heart, often crushing the very breath out of me.

In so many ways, I have already lost my husband. Much of what we once shared is gone forever, and his soul now wanders in a valley that is inaccessible to me, having been forced to stay behind. I resent that other women care for him, and touch his body. I am the only one who is supposed to have intimate knowledge of his flesh, and I feel like something that was my own has been taken away from me. Sometimes I am even asked to leave the room, and that just doesn't seem fair. He is my husband, and these are the last days of our lives together. I shouldn't have to miss any of it.

At times, I am angry at him. The handsome young hero with the soft brown curls, who loved to wear Superman t-shirts and blue jeans, has left me, never to return. In his place, is a fragile ghost who wears blue and white hospital gowns. His hair is unwashed, and his face is bloated. He is no longer available to meet any of my needs. How could he have let this happen? I feel like he has let me down. And is not death the ultimate betrayal? How can he cross a boundary like that and leave me here alone?

This is not how he wanted to die. He had the typical young man's dream of going out in a blaze of glory, dying victorious amid the bodies and blood of his enemies. And of course, before he breathed his last, I was supposed to appear, full of pride at his valor. He would die in my arms, knowing how much I loved him, with my face being the last thing he ever saw in this life. Now I am so afraid that when the end does come, I will have been banished from the room, and that if he opens his eyes for a last look, it will be strangers' faces that he sees, and not mine.

Our lives had been complete - we were so much in love. Even the worst times were not so bad, and we learned to have fun under almost any circumstance. At the beginning of the illness, which so cruelly ravaged our lives, we would lie together in his hospital bed tickling each other and giggling. We could always make each other laugh, even after bouts of weeping so intense that neither of us could speak, but simply clung helplessly to each other. As long as we were together, we thought that somehow everything would be all right. Sickness would have no power over us - we would thwart it with love, denial, and laughter. The sunny days would not end - our love would be a talisman that would keep him with me forever, whole and happy. It would be the miracle that would save him, or maybe we would even wake up and find that it had all been a dream. But, just as lovers look at the darkening sky with dismay when their romantic picnic is about to be spoiled by rain, we watched helplessly as the black cloud gradually covered our lives. His body weakened, and there were so many things we knew he would never be able to do again. He would turn his head so that I couldn't see his tears when I had to struggle with the heavy grocery bags or taking the trash out, because he didn't have the strength to do these things any more. His former passion was gone - instead of taking off his clothes for romantic lovemaking, I had to help him bathe and dress. I wept for what was lost, but rejoiced that he was still with me, and that I was able to take care of him.

The surgeries were agony. I would sit in the waiting room with my stomach twisting, a book held in front of my face for a privacy shield as the minutes and hours ticked slowly by. I hated the thought of him being unconsious and vulnerable, strapped to a table, while doctors cut pieces from his body. It was unbearable not knowing what was going on, and knowing that at that moment, there was nothing that I could do for him.

There is nothing I can do for him now as he lies here. I touch him and talk to him, hoping that every touch, every word will somehow keep him here longer. Perhaps I should whisper to him that he can let go now; that it's okay to leave, but I can't. I'm not ready to lose him yet - I need another week, another day, even another hour. Please, God. All too soon, it will be over, and I will be returning home alone. I will pack up our things that we brought with us when we came here for this last time - his brush; his glasses. It suddenly occurs to me that he hasn't even worn the glasses since we've been here this time. I wish I could see him dressed again, like nothing was wrong. I long for even just five minutes of life how it used to be.

As the cars scurry along the highway, I wonder about the people in them. How many of them are on their way to be with the one they love? Do they realize just how precious their time is together, and how quickly it could be snatched away? Would they feel as empty as I do if they lost the one who was the center of their life? At this moment, it seems that my pain is exclusive; that no one else could ever know anguish of this depth. As I am stabbed with guilt, I feel the familiar, incredibly selfish thought - why was my husband chosen? Why not someone else who would be missed less?

Yet, no matter what happens, I can't help but be thankful for what we have had. Even though our time was cut short, we truly loved and shared our souls with each other. In just a few short years, we had more than many people know in a lifetime. I will grieve for what is lost, but I will also cherish and nurture the part of him that will live in my heart forever. It will become a bittersweet garden, watered by tears, warmed by the memory of his love, and given shade by the sorrow and agony of losing him.

I turn from the window and resume my vigil beside his bed. I touch his hand and pray that he isn't in pain, and that even now, somewhere inside, he knows how very much I love him.

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