The Lessons Life Teaches, A Collection of Short Stories.

"Dan, Dan"

My wife and I were married for almost forty years. She was an exceptional person; kind and loving. For the past two years, she was physically handicapped. She was unable to stand or walk. Except for short trips to the doctor in the county's handicap van, her world was the front room of our home. Because of this we purchased a specially designed, comfortable recliner chair for her to sit and rest. In the last year or so, she also slept in the chair. This was because she was unable to lay flat in bed as she would cough uncontrollably when her lungs would begin to fill with fluid.

I worked nights so that I could be with her during the day. A friend and neighbor of ours stayed with her at night for safety and to help her. During the day, I moved my wife to a wheelchair at least three times a day for meals at the kitchen table and for other needs. When she was not in the wheelchair, she napped and watched television in the recliner chair. Life was made more tolerable by our three dogs who absolutely loved and worshipped her. There was also a large picture window in the front room where she could look out at the goings on in the neighborhood. She used her cell phone to keep in touch with friends and family. It was not what one would wish, but it was better than the alternative of a nursing home. At the nursing home there were no dogs, little warmth and affection, and only a small room with no picture window. What there was at the nursing home was ubiquitous loneliness. Neither she nor I wanted that for her. I had great empathy for her quality of life, and we worked on improving her condition with a physical therapist that came to the house twice a week, but though time her health continued to decline.

During the day I either slept near her on the couch in the living room or in our bedroom, which was next to the living room. If she ever needed anything when I was asleep, she would call out my name, "Dan". The call easily woke me up and I was able to answer her question or get her what she needed. This was the routine for nearly the past two years. In addition to meals, she generally would call out "Dan" from a couple times a day to half a dozen times on particularly difficult days. I noticed when it was urgent to her, she would anxiously call may name twice, "Dan, Dan". In those cases, I would always get up immediately and rush to see what was wrong.

Unfortunately, my wife passed away three weeks ago in the hospital. The transition has been awful. Going from constant loving companion to no one has been at best difficult. To get to the point of this story, as I was sleeping this afternoon for tonight's night shift, my brain called out to me in her perfect voice, "Dan, Dan". I immediately woke up and began getting out of bed to see what she needed. Then the horrible realization hit me that she was now gone. Even more disconcerting was the feeling that she really was calling out to me for help, and I was just not able to help her now. It was a desperate, awful, terrible, sickening feeling which I am still unable to let go of. I pray now it was only my mind missing her and not that she actually was calling for me to help her from the beyond.