Katherine Jean, a month before God took you by the hand, you took me by mine and tried to prepare me for a life without you. After calling 911 the week prior, I wasn’t expecting another conversation, but you are full of surprises.
I was astonished just to find you fully dressed, that day in March, stretched out on the couch in your room at Cross Cancer Institute, fierce and warm as ever, waiting for my arrival.
“Tim,” you said, “get a cup of coffee and come and sit, we have a lot to talk about.”
It was a lot to take in: your great hair, your enchanting eyes, your complete frankness, your sparkling clarity. Despite being drenched in morphine, you were your complete self. We looked at each other for what seemed a long time, and you started to cry.
“I want my grandchildren to remember me,” you said.
You gave me instructions, making sure I wrote them down. We agreed that I’d keep driving your car for a while, so that when I picked up the kids they would be in Grandma Kate’s car. You asked me to clean up the clutter.
We talked for four hours, held hands, laughed, cried, and took inventory of what we accomplished together in 45 years, the crazy-good fun we had, the stack of miracles we sit on. So many perfect days, and yet I think that day in the hospital was the best of my life.
I tried to put off cleaning and decluttering, as you had asked, because it would be too painful to sort through it all, but eventually I went to work. Somehow you knew that the first place I’d tackle was your bedside table, where I uncovered a stack of love letters, every one I ever wrote you, including the Valentine’s Day telegram I sent you from Australia in 1981. (You told me that was the day you decided to marry me.) My Christmas 1982 letter, the first after our wedding, when I told you “I appreciate your willingness to try, try again, bend, work, love, trust and care for me.” And here you are, 43 years later, still trusting and caring for me.
How long were you planning this? Sweetie, you are the fiercest woman I have ever known.
When I told you the next day that I found the stack of love letters in your nightstand, you smiled. “Thanks for driving me and coming with me to all those appointments,” you said. “Thanks for making French onion soup. Thank you for your help, Tim, thank you. This has been so much easier with you holding my hand.”
This is a new series of essays by Edmontonians reflecting on human connection. Pitch your little love story to [email protected].
This article appears in the July/August 2025 issue of Edify
