Widowed: My Husband Keeps Dying on Me

It’s been a full eighteen months since Jon’s death, but even now my husband keeps dying on me.

It happened again the other day. The November weather was wet and chilly, so instead of taking a walk I thought I might use Jon’s recumbent bike to get a little exercise.

Jon bought that bike during the pandemic shut-down, and it has sat — unused since his death — in a sunny corner of Christina’s old bedroom.

It Was Jon’s Bike

I can’t stand to look at that bike, let alone use it. It was Jon’s bike, and Jon is still taking up space on it. If I go to that end of the room and I get too close to it, I cry.

Getting close to that bike is one thing. Using it is another. If I used that bike, my thinking has been, it wouldn’t be Jon’s bike any more. It would be mine. And if it’s my bike and not Jon’s, then Jon really is gone.

Still, it was cold and wet outside the other day and I needed some exercise, so I decided to give the bike a try. I went around to that corner of Christina’s room, put my hands on the handlebars, and was informed — again, but as if for the first time — that Jon was dead.

I wept again, as if for the first time.

My Husband Keeps Dying on Me

Jon does that. My husband keeps dying on me. Several times a week, I’m wrenched from my now reasonably contented life back to that telephone call from the hospital on the night he died.

I couldn’t take it in then, and I can’t take it in now.

So, most of the time I keep that phone call blocked, sealed off from my days like a gall on an oak tree. But, every now and then, the call gets through and the news is forced on me afresh.

In tears, I decided against riding the bike. I left it undisturbed at the sunny end of Christina’s bedroom and resolved to take a walk instead.

For that I’d need my winter coat. Where was it? In Peter’s old bedroom closet probably.

I went to Peter’s room, opened the closet door, and there was Jon’s winter coat, hanging in its garment bag.

I paused. Winter’s coming, I thought, and it’s a warm coat. I should give it to someone who needs it. I pulled the coat out of its bag and draped the heavy thing across my arm.

And there he was again. Jon. Dying on me. Tears.

I put the coat back in its bag, where I could have it but not think about it, and I willed myself to attend to the business at hand — how to get some exercise today.

I found my winter coat. I put it on. It was nice and warm. I took a walk.

More about exercise and feeling great at “Oops, I Forgot to Do My Kegels. I Blame the Coronavirus.”  More about looking great — sorta — at “Mad Man Exposes the ’60s Girdle – But Will She Get It Off in Time?”