A matter of death and life

If I can avoid the misery of too much physical pain, if I can enjoy the simple pleasures of living from day to day, if I can say farewell to my dearest friends—either in person or writing—if I can rise to my best self and express my love for them and, with grace, accept my fate, then, perhaps, the moment of dying will be a form of culmination.
So now, at the age of 88 and Marilyn dead, I find myself living alone for the very first time. I have to change so many things. If I see an outstanding TV show, I long to tell Marilyn about it, and over and again I have to remind myself that there is no Marilyn and that this TV show, this flake of life, is of value and interest even though Marilyn shall never share it. Analogous events happen very frequently. A woman phones and asks to speak to Marilyn. When I inform her of Marilyn’s death, she begins sobbing on the phone, tells me how much she would miss Marilyn, and how important Marilyn had been to her. After the call ends, once again I have to remind myself that this experience, too, ends right now with me. There would be no sharing the experience with Marilyn. But I am not referring to loneliness. It’s a matter of learning that omething can have value and interest and importance even if I am the only one who experiences it, even if I cannot share it with Marilyn.
My introversion subdues loneliness.
it is necessary for the patient to pass through all the year’s major events for the first time without their spouse—birthdays, Christmas, Easter, New Year’s, a first social outing as a single man or woman—before substantial improvement occurs. And for some patients even a second year, a second cycle, is necessary.
It’s as though I’m waiting for someone to rescue me. I feel like a helpless child. Perhaps I’m thinking magically—that my helplessness will somehow result in Marilyn’s return. I’m by no means suicidal, but I believe I comprehend and empathize with the mentality of a suicidal individual as never before.