A reason to live?

A few months before my wife died, she was in physical rehab at the hospital. Everything was looking marvelous at the time, with the years of unhealthy lifestyle and being physically capable of getting back home after months in hospital, being addressed. She'd been going very well with the exercises and walking again. She however was scratching herself profusely for some reason (liver?) and got an extremely bad blood infection.

Nobody knew this at the time. I walked in there a day after she'd been doing well, to the sound of her in hysterical crying. The nurses were completely beside themselves as to what to do about her behaviour, and it was so distressful to me that I went and had a discussion with the ward psychologist about it. The psychologist tried to be helpful but himself was mystified as to her behaviour. A day later I got a phone call at home from the hospital, saying that she had a serious blood infection and I needed to come in and discuss it with them. This was nothing more serious than many other of her experiences re sickness and so I didn't consider it as life threatening; everything else had been but she'd recovered.

But she did. She must have felt the infection go through her body and taking the last bit of life from her. She'd already suffered beyond words. This was the last straw, and she knew she was dying. She accepted it long before anyone else. On that day that she was hysterical on the exercise ward, she was yelling at me all upset, saying "I'm going to die". I was dumfounded as the day before she'd been fine. I asked her what about our daughter? Her reply was "It's not enough".

I've often thought about that in hindsight. She'd fought long and hard, but finally it got to the point where even our growing daughter wasn't enough for her to hang on. A bit later on when I realised what was going on, we had a discussion about her death and her wish to let go. I gave her permission to die that day, and she appreciated that I understood her wish. Such behaviour was an exhibition of our love for each other. Like behaviour continued between us finally to her death a few weeks later. Those moments we had during those last weeks and days, right up until her final departing, I will never forget. They were the best moments of my life; the saddest, but the happiest. Loving each other so deeply, we portrayed that in her death.

Since then I've not feared death. And when it all went bad I desired death. Many would have asked "What about your daughter?", but it wasn't enough. The pain was too strong. It had overtaken my life completely. Since then it's been all about dealing with the pain, not being happy.

Today I wonder, as I feel genuinely happy being with Simon. Perhaps I can move on from just avoiding the pain? Perhaps there might be a life with Simon where happiness exists? Perhaps I have a reason to live, instead of a reason to not die?