This morning at two o’clock, my wife Shirley died peacefully in her sleep. She’d been at home under hospice care for six weeks after an acute failure of her mitral heart valve. She was very brave and put up with the indignities of bed-care with good humor and without complaint, or at least without too much. Willful as always, one of her last acts was to turn down a medication I was offering her. She must have known she no longer needed it. It was a long goodbye and her death was hardly unexpected. I shan’t say “I’ll miss her”; how can you miss someone who remains an integral part of you? We had been married almost fifty years—I can no longer tell where she stops and I begin, and vice versa. During the last weeks she  wanted no music in the house. Now Casals and Bach comfort me.

An afterthought: The worst thing about death is its finality. The door is closed. There is no rewind or edit. Whatever was was, for all time.

And another: The advantage of hospice care is that you get to die on your own terms. In Shirley’s case that meant serious introspection, no visitors, little talk, almost no food except a little wine, and no entertainment. “She needed all her concentration to go quietly,” was how a friend put it.