On the other end of the phone, a man identified himself as a Hospital Emergency Room doctor. He said, “I’m sorry, but I must inform you that your husband, Arnie Richardson was brought to the hospital in an ambulance an hour ago, but we were unable to save him. He passed away shortly after arriving here.”  My body felt limp and bloodless as I processed the sudden shock at what the doctor told me.

The minute I put down the phone, doubt flooded into my mind. I told myself that the doctor must have accidentally called the wrong wife. The man who was dead was someone else, not my husband. Once I was ushered into an Emergency Room to identify my husband’s body, my initial shock turned into long term shock. Now, I knew with certainty that the unthinkable was true.

I had a job to do; letting family members know what had happened, plan a funeral, and somehow manage to emotionally live through this unwelcome reality. It was as if I was operating on remote control. During that first week after Arnie died, if someone would have asked me to climb Mount Everest, swim the English Channel or fight off a den of hungry lions, I would have mindlessly, mechanically began climbing, swimming, or fighting.

The summer months after my husband’s April 2^nd death were both busy and aimless. I went back to work where I made believe that my life was back to normal. Coming home to an empty house each evening was a different matter. I felt lost and empty. To keep busy I began organizing Arnie’s messy work areas in the garage. I longed to discover a comforting message or some other sign from him among his jumble of tools.

As fall and winter set in that year, the short hours of daylight and the cold weather made me feel depressed. I could still immerse myself in what I was doing while at work each day, but starting the mornings became harder and harder.

One morning, I arrived at the hospital unit where I worked. I felt miserable. The whole world seemed dark and cheerless. There was never daylight when I woke in the mornings and the sun would go down the minute I arrived home from work. I was always cold. In the unit’s kitchenette, I leaned over to place the lunch I’d packed for myself in the refrigerator when I happened to glance at the coffee pot on the counter. It was full of freshly brewed coffee.

I have always loved how coffee smells, but caffeine turns me into a jittery mess. Feeling jittery is unpleasant, so I avoid drinking coffee. But that morning I developed a sudden, strong desire for a drink of hot, milky, sweet coffee. I was convinced it would warm me clear to my soul. I reasoned to myself as I prepared a cup, “Four ounces of creamed and sweetened coffee shouldn’t hurt me.”

That small, hot cup of homemade cappuccino tasted wonderful and did indeed warm me. Each morning after that, the minute I arrived at work, I made my cup of comfort. If that small amount of coffee ever made me jittery, I never noticed, because those effects were helpful since my work was to rush around answering call lights and doing patient care.

I eventually was able to tolerate drinking full cups of coffee that were only slightly creamed. I stopped using sweeteners entirely. The deep wound of my sudden widowhood had healed.

Although I continue to miss Arnie’s company, our conversations, and jokes, my broken heart has scarred over, and I have adjusted to living without my love. Emotionally, I have successfully climbed Mount Everest, swam the English Channel, and fought off a den of hungry lions.