After 13 years of seeing each other only occasionally, I couldn't understand at first what Jerry's brother was doing in my living room, nor could I comprehend what he was saying. "Jerry… accident… hospital… not good.” I listened again, harder. There had been an accident, and the man I loved was now in a coma. We had often kidded about who would die first; I always made him promise to let me be the one. The truth was, I couldn't see a future without him. And now here I was, being told he might be dying.

His family was at the hospital when I arrived. The doctors held out little hope—his brain showed minimal to no activity. Helpless and hopeless, I just cried. Jerry’s wife (they had been separated for years) hugged me. I was also angry inside to be the "other woman," having loved and been with him 13 years but now having no rights to ask the doctors for information nor any say in what treatment he got. It was a nightmare.

The next day his wife called and asked me to go visit Jerry with her. This led to an amazing friendship. Everyday we went in together, two women loving the same man, each having been part of his life. She had his children; I had our memories.

We talked about him, from different viewpoints. It seemed I had gotten his "mellow years" and she the "difficult” ones. Through it, we cried and we laughed. We shouted at him for walking in front of a car, and we held onto each other for support.

After they finally took him off the ventilator, he "lived" for several more days. Throughout I prayed that God would take him quickly. He had never wanted to be a vegetable. There was no brain activity at all now, just a pumping heart in an empty shell. For myself, I asked God only that I could be with him when he took his last breath.

It was a night I had not planned to go in. I had been to the hospital that day, but something told me to go back. Oddly, there were no other visitors. I sat down and held Jerry's hand. I talked as usual as if he were awake. Then, through a veil of tears, I told him it was okay to let go—he had put up a good fight. His hand still in mine, I laid my head down on his chest. How much time passed I don’t know before I heard a faint sigh—and then nothing. I couldn't move. More time passed. His brother came in, saw my face, and asked if Jerry was gone. I nodded yes and he got the nurse. Jerry had died. I felt I had too.

His wife and I chose the casket. I requested "Amazing Grace" be sung at the service, which Jerry’s brother did so beautifully. This was a veteran’s funeral, and when "Taps" were played, I broke down. His oldest son and I held each other and sobbed. It was awful, yet wonderful too.

Afterwards at home, I was a basket case, sitting and holding tight to Jerry’s and my cats. They never left my side; even at night they slept in bed with me.

Before long Jerry’s wife called: she was lonely and sad. I invited her over. She came, and for seven months, she stayed. And soon, so did their second oldest son. I was so happy to have them here. We leaned on each other, exchanged memories, and shared Christmas (which I think saved all of us). It was a time of family, love, friendship, humor, and noise. By the time they moved out, I think we had all realized we could survive and move ahead with our lives.

Twenty-nine months later, I rarely cry, and I can remember Jerry with a smile. I still yell at him for dying and especially for not looking both ways when he crossed that street. My cats still follow me everywhere, and when I get melancholy, I talk to them about "their father" and ask “remember when?"s.

I have confidence, as when my mother and dad died, that I can endure. My cats’ antics amuse me. My faith—that I don't have any power and I have to let God show the way—brings me solace. I work with Alzheimer’s patients and recognize how amazing the fight of the human spirit is. I see the love and the patience of their family members who continue to help them. I see people compensating for what they’ve lost and still wanting to live.

Jerry and I had 13 years of love and laughs, arguments and make-ups. I feel lucky that I have the memories to savor.