Category Archives: Angelchroniclestories


The problem with things on the quantum scale is that we cannot predict where they are in space and time, which greatly gives us many choices of where a particle or wave is likely to be. This same principle is also at work when the universe offers me opportunities.

This is the heart of my understanding of why I make the choices that I do. Like the quantum world, my Universe offers many different opportunities; I am not able to know in advance how those opportunities will work if I choose one of them.

In the summer of my 15th year, I needed to be employed. Two of my choices were getting a paper route or working as a caddy at the local golf club.

The paper route would be easy. I had friends who had routes and I could find out from them how to begin. A caddy job? No clue.

I lived with my parents in a second-floor apartment of a converted single-family home. The male counterpart of the couple who lived on the first floor learned from my mother of my predicament of finding work.

He found me outside one day.

“Come with me,” he said, “I will drive you up to the airport and see if they have a job for you.”

Within my quantum world, his suggestion created a third choice.

The Universe, as I understand it, like the quantum world, offers no fixed path or position of opportunities. It is up to me, the Observer, to identify the correct position or path of the opportunities before me.

“This young man needs a job to keep him off the streets,” my neighbor said to the man in charge, who was the business owner of the airport, which also offered a flight school.

“Yes!” the owner replied.

The deal was very simple; I was to get to the airport early and do odd jobs until later in the afternoon when I could go home. He pointed out a few specific jobs such as fueling the aircraft that came in, helping the aircraft owners return their airplanes to the hangers, washing and cleaning aircraft and mowing the runway around the buildings.

Whenever the airport needed me, my pay would start at $5 a day, plus the fringe benefits of flying lessons and access to the vending machines for snacks.

I would give my mom the cash for board; flying was my big benefit.

My home was adjacent to the airport property, no need for any other transportation or bothering my parents for a ride. I would conveniently walk to the airport each day and see what work they had for me.

For all of my young life I had wanted to be a railroad engineer. The thought of becoming a pilot never entered my mind. This was a truly exciting development. I was smitten with the idea of working with the planes.

My father was a tool and die engineer in the aircraft industry during World War II. He talked about airplanes and was briefly employed by the Bellanca Aircraft Company in Wilmington, Delaware.

Bellanca made a fast, small, low-wing airplane, which could carry the pilot and three other people. There was a growing market for similar airplanes to be used by business owners and wealthy people for recreation. That was the extent of my knowledge about flying.

“What do you say to the man?” my neighbor had asked me.

Summoning up all the courage I had as a boy, I replied. “Thank you, I would like the job. Can I start tomorrow?”

We shook hands, which I found out was the way that men ‘sealed the deal.’

I followed my neighbor out of the office building to his car. Once in the car, my neighbor asked me what I thought.

“Thank you,” I said to him enthusiastically, although I don’t think he really knew how excited I was about getting that particular job.

It was not until decades later, while studying the physical and quantum aspects of the universe, did I understand how the Universe really worked making my future.

Missing you

It is now two years and two months to the day. I am having difficulty writing. My grief comes and goes like a great ocean wave roiling a fragile shore, obliterating what new words come to my mind.

If you have a mind to write a love story, think of what it must be like for a man in his eightieth year to be parted from the only woman he loved since he was barely able to be a man.

Sharpen your pencil, allow love to take over your story, write what your heart tells you. Do not pay attention to the critic on your shoulder, just let it all pour out, like my river of tears.

Love letters

January 22, 2022

Dear Peg,

I wrote you during the times we first fell in love. During those times we were parted when I was away however briefly, sometimes every day.

Now we will be parted for an extended period of time, not forever though, for the time it will take for my earthly life to come to an end. “We are to live until we die.” Not helpful at all to me. Our children, animals and friends would dearly miss me as they have missed you if I leave by my own hand early.

Joann was a wise choice. I am happy you enjoyed her company and her help. I have asked her to stay on for me. She has agreed and I hope she will be with me until the end of my life. All the legal work is done and people will see to an orderly dissolution of our/my estate. Now I am faced with caring for the animals and hoping to outlive them as I outlived you.

Mrs. Brown passed away from a stroke, or as it was with many, I had to have her put down to save her from an uncomfortable end.

Nancy is only vaguely aware of your passing, but she seemed to know not all was well when you had to leave.

I miss you and love you very much.

Love forever, Dave


Morning Swim

The early morning clouds and fog are burning off. Peg is swimming back to the cottage, she is a very strong swimmer, much more at home in the water than I.

I get up from the deck chair, gather her beach towel and walk to the end of the deck. Peg strides confidently out of the water and up the stairs to meet me. I hold the towel out and wrap it around her. Her body might be cold but her lips are warm, we kiss.

I hold her firmly in an extended embrace.

“I’m going in to take a shower,” she says, then quickly disappears, leaving me standing there aroused.

Oh well, we can do that later, I think to myself, when the others are out walking the streets of Lake George Village. I like it better in the afternoon anyway, I can get a nap afterwards, then get cleaned up and have dinner with the others who always bring the makings of a nice dinner, and wine, always wine.

I have my own private dialogue. A private dialogue then, and now as I have this dream, this dream in the middle of the morning, sitting in my easy chair thinking of the times we had together.

How am I ever going to find a woman like her? More of my private dialogue, trying to hold the memory before it leaves me forever. Leaves me as she has, forever.

Although, I am slightly better now, not grieving as hard or as frequently. The memories of our time at the lake are triggered by the open photo albums I have scattered throughout the house, but I am afraid to close them, afraid to put them away lest I lose her.

I am resigned to the fact that she is never coming back, but still, the memories are a dream I may awaken from where everything will be as it was. She will be taunting me; I will get aroused and the fog will part forever.

Click Click Click

Click, Click, Click

Click, click, click, ###, click, click, click, ###.

Those were the six numbers I entered into the number dialog box on my cell phone.

Immediately, a new dialog box popped up; I entered the word HOME and pressed send. I took a sharp intake of breath, for this was the beginning of the end of the escalation of my grief, the diminishment of my spirit, the tearing apart of my soul.

A quick reply followed, the words scrolled across my cell phone screen: Hi, this is Crisis Text Line. You’re not alone. By texting further with us you agree to our terms.

The Crisis Text Line exists as a way for those in the midst of an emergency to get immediate help. Many, unlike myself, have no one to reach out to when they find themselves overwhelmed by emotional and physical pain that requires intervention by experienced caregivers.

Originally, the helpline was an 800-telephone number. I kept the number handy in my directory ready to call if I finally reached the end of my rope. However, what I really wanted was a way to text someone and have a brief SMS conversation to allow me time to calm myself and think rationally.

Last year I saw a Facebook page that showed exactly what I wanted. I remembered the six-digit code and the word Home. I was relieved the word was HOME and not HELP, calling HOME was not as threatening as calling HELP.

I am fortunate, I have several people who come to my home to help me keep my household in order, do the heavy lifting, cleaning and food preparation, all part of a plan originally instituted to allow my beloved and myself to live independently in our own home till death do us part.

Death did do us part. Six months ago, my mate and lover crossed over the Vail to her new journey sailing the vast reaches of the Universe. Sailing alone without me; we were inseparable.

Now I am alone. 

As friendly and caring as my caregivers are, I find the primary reason they take care of me is that I compensate them. Their compensation goes a long way to allowing them to be here frequently at the expense of their own lives.

Although my family would go out of their way to give me comfort, they live distances away, distances in time and in keeping to their own already established schedules. If I were going to need prompt help, it undoubtedly wouldn’t come quickly from those sources.

Like others, I have many acquaintances and a few close friends. Friends are friends because they understand me and care about me, although I am not their principal preoccupation. I have no preconceived notion of what my friends are able to do for me if a quick response was needed. The refrain, “I am here for you,” only goes so far. In reality they may not be “here for me” when I need them the most. For example, I get disappointed when I call and get voicemail or when I text and get no response. That disappointment only increases my feeling of loneliness.

My difficulty with being alone is that my loneliness can enter a downward spiral, descending into a black hole so deep that rational thoughts get left behind. I fear I may take my life to end the fall into darkness. Mine is not an unusual situation, the Covid-19 epidemic has left many lonely and unable to find comfort in the touch of a close friend or loved one.

Now I am alone, except for the intuitive communications with my Angel, whose advice lately has been, “Call the Crisis Text Line!” Angel doesn’t have time for pleasantries, she doesn’t mince words, when she is concerned for my safety, she is a woman-of-action.

Years ago, I first encountered the helpline when I became interested in how I would handle my increasingly suicidal thoughts, triggered by my memories of the abuse of my past and my understanding that my loved one may not be here for me, that I would most certainly be alone.

The other reason that I never used the helpline was out of fear that the service would overreact to my emotional pain and call authorities ‘for my own good’ to prevent me from carrying out any perceived suicidal plan. After all, they have a responsibility to save. Once outside help had been summoned, it would be an additional nightmare of intervention and perhaps psychiatric hospital care, the attendant meds, greatly increasing my burden of coping, taking care of my beloved and holding a job.

I once read about a man in China who patrols one of that country’s highest bridges. He does so out of the goodness of his own heart trying to get the attention of jumpers before they go over the edge. Saving them was one thing, the next part of their journey would be the hardest part of their lives including the countless hours of counseling and psychiatric treatments to bring them to the point where they would be able to love themselves. I wonder if a life of counseling and treatment would be right for me? Would I simply be better off moving along to the next part of my journey into the Universe? I consider that to be a rational question considering my understanding of how my energy exists within the Universe. I am only passing through; why make my journey here on earth any more difficult than it is?

There is a true story of a very troubled man, a military service man in top physical shape, but suffering from bouts of severe depression and Schizophrenia, who jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. On the way down he questioned himself as to why he jumped and he made a deal with himself that if he survived, he would live a life of service to other sufferers considering suicide.

Because of his superb physical condition, he survived and has dedicated his life to appearances with audiences wishing to know more about how to manage their own lives of mental discomfort and questions.

Personally, my grief does not follow any particular linear plan. Mine appears to come in waves of more painful emotions spread farther apart in time. It has been six months now, six months of increasing loneliness and emotional pain. Not only emotional pain but unrelenting physical pain, which only yields to prescription meds, but still, the physical pain is the result of a broken brain and fractured soul because of the loss of my beloved.

Hey, I’m Clara and I am here for you. Will you share more about what’s going on? These were the very pleasant and comforting words of a woman who typed into the dialog box on my cellphone.

(Me) My spouse of fifty-two years passed away 6 months ago. I have very caring family and friends. Nighttime is the worst so I thought I should have a back-up person if my mood gets low. I slowly pushed the keys on my ancient flip phone hoping not to make too many spelling errors and in keeping with the new shorthand of text messaging, the new world of SMS, the world of description not to exceed 160 characters per entry.

(Clara) That’s an incredibly difficult situation to be in and you’re strong for reaching out today. It’s hard when you’re alone and everything gets overwhelming.

Immediately I understood that Clara, if that was her real name, got it. I lowered my guard.

(Me) I feel relieved now to be able to connect with someone fast.

(Clara) It’s always good to talk with someone. I can tell you’re a compassionate person and care very much for others.

I was not sure how she knew that, but it was comforting and built up my depreciated self-image.

(Me) Don’t want to be a bother. Txt is better than the phone. Plus, I feel you may be impartial.

(Clara) Your peace and mental health are important. It’s understandable to feel like you may be a bother but it is important to remember to take care of yourself however you can. By reaching out, you’re taking the first step towards feeling better. You’re no bother at all. I’m here to support you and I’m glad you reached out.

Our text exchange went on and I got the impression that Clara didn’t want me to disconnect the call. Clara reiterated someone would be available 24/7 if I needed to text back. She asked me if I wanted to keep talking or end the call? I preferred to end the call.

At the end of our text session an automated message sprang up asking me if I wanted to complete a brief survey as to how my text session went. I was too worn out from the stress of making that text call, I put the phone down so I could reflect on my emotional state.

I looked at the time, it was 6:19 p.m., I began the text session at 5:50 p.m. Thirty minutes with brief periods of time while each of us typed our responses. I was surprised and relieved by how easy it was to make a connection.

Feeling less alone and knowing I had made some progress towards taking care of myself without the involvement of family or friends, I got ready for bed. Finding myself too tired from the emotions of talking to someone new about my problems, I elected not to read but to turn out the light and try to sleep.

Later that night I found myself sharing my bed with four of our cats, a seldom occurrence. The cats felt my tension and unhappiness; they decided to be there to comfort me.

I slept fitfully, I knew that I must address my suicidal thoughts, having a knowing ear was helpful but not enough. It was medicinal but not a cure.   


December 5th, 2020. Two months after Peg’s death.

I awake uncharacteristically late this morning. I have jobs that must be done every day to keep our household in order. Our home is still our home, it is now where her soul and my physical self, reside. Although, if anyone comes here, they will only see me. 

I no longer want to get up. Could I lie here in our bed and die? Animals and humans die of a broken heart, how long would it take me to die? Would one of the many friends or caregivers find me dead? Do they understand why I am still lying-in bed day after day? 

It would be called a deep depression, counseling would be called for, meds would be prescribed. No one would automatically know that my condition was a necessary part of grieving. They would try to fix a process that was not broken.

A broken heart requires time, time for stillness, time for the mind to sort out the steps to take to allow me to change and adapt to a new life without her. Time to fully grasp the depth of what happened to us when she died.

December 10th, 2020

Two months and five days have passed since she started on her journey, two months and five days without her physical presence, two months and five days with only my knowledge that her soul is somewhere in the Universe, the Universe of souls that I so much believe in. Two months and five days of constant reminders of the love we had together. Two months and five days of trying to convince myself that the energy of her soul will be enough for me, that I do not need her physical presence to continue on with my own earthly journey.

As strongly as I believe in my concept of how the Universe works, our physical bodies die but our soul lives on, it is not enough to make up for the terrible aching loss of my companion of fifty-two years. My reality is – I will never see her physical presence again. I will never touch her, never kiss her, never smell the softness of her hair, never feel the comfort of her warm body as we cuddle in bed. Never hold her hand as we cross the street, never share the same humorous stories at the dinner table, I will never again see her sleeping peacefully in her recliner with one of her favorite cats in her lap.

I feel useless, purpose-less, unable to accomplish the smallest task without herculean effort, without becoming breathless, starving for air not coming into my lungs. My chest aches from the exertion of breathing. My frozen heart is not able to keep up with the emotions formed by the image of seeing her die before me.

Grieving is the norm now. I wake in the middle of the night feeling for her body beside me in bed. For a short time, I have forgotten she has passed and will never come back. I think she has just gone to the bathroom; I will rearrange the sheets and blanket to make her side of the bed comfortable for when she comes back to bed. Then, I realize Peg will never come back to bed, I will forever be alone.

We had slept together for fifty-two years through loving interchanges and sometimes the cold of a brief spat, although the latter I am unable to recall details. Or the great unrest, a period of time when we weren’t sure our marriage would last. We made a second commitment, till death do us part. Marriage is always a work in progress to the very end.

For the last two years, I have taken to waking in the night to check on her, I would listen to the rhythm of her breathing to be sure she was okay, then and only then, return to my sleep.

Now, I awaken in the night to the reality that I am alone. That reality brings on sobbing and tears as I reach out for her and she is not there.

The sleepless nights are not helping me, they are dragging out the process of grieving and upsetting my physical health, which is quickly becoming a major concern.

Will the aching in my heart cause damage to my heart? I don’t want to address this because it may lead to trips to the doctors, hospital, rounds of tests, meds, or even surgery. I think I would rather die – yes! – I would be able to join her in the great Universe.

My research says there is an increased possibility of widowers dying in the first years of their loss. If I get hospitalized and I have choices I will say, “just let me die so I may be with her.”

I am going to bed at 6 p.m. It is winter and the days are very short but that is still early for me. I sleep fitfully, waking up to make trips to the bathroom, a normal occurrence for a man of my age, different now, I am always listening for her in the off-hand chance she will reappear alive and well again. If some of the cats are on the bed, I put them out of our room at 5:30 a.m. and sleep until I no longer can stand the guilt of not feeding them. 

During the day, I nap after getting breakfast. Then if the spirit moves me, I write, I write until the memories overwhelm me, I may only produce a few paragraphs, at least that is something.

For a full month after Peg’s death, I would get up and get dressed and have the animals fed by 7 a.m. and then drive to my favorite breakfast place. Then the COVID-19 lockdown began after Thanksgiving and I couldn’t go out, so I sleep. I no longer care if I am sleeping my life away.

This is one of the big problems COVID-19 has caused, not seeing regular acquaintances, or being able to go out; it traps me in a downward spiral of living with my thoughts, dangerous thoughts, magical thoughts that I will in some way have her back. Unrealistic expectations that Peg is not really gone.

I am living on the edge of a great void. Everything that enters my mind reminds me of the life we had together. Across this great void I see visions of her and I together, the visions go in and out of focus, a great fog in my mind obscures every thought of today, I live in the past.   

I am eating less now, I am losing weight, not a bad thing I rationalize. Breakfast and lunch sometimes hold me through the night, occasionally augmented by a piece of pie. I nap in the afternoon unable to be interested in doing anything constructive. If I work on this writing, grief overcomes me and I can longer see the words on the screen because of the tears in my eyes.

No matter who is helping me, they leave by 4 p.m. and I am alone. Alone to watch the day fade away like I am allowing my life to do.

I moved the recliner to our bedroom so I can spend most of the day with Peg. Her ashes are in a cloisonné urn sitting on her dresser guarded by a bevy of stuffed animals. From my position in the recliner, I have conversations with her.

It is just a few days until the new year. My asthma has been steadily getting worse. I am using the meds, but by this morning I am very congested. I decide to just lie in bed and not get up. My plans change when my breathing gets worse.

My breathing is now very labored. I have trouble going up and down the stairs to feed the cats. I know my breathing health worsened because of my grieving. When I am overcome by the memories of Peg’s death, my chest tightens up, I wonder if the pain is a prelude to a heart attack. Am I capable of making good decisions about my physical health?

I retained Peg’s caregiver, the woman who was with Peg non-stop during the last three days of her life. Peg’s caregiver is my caregiver now. I text her with my decision to go to the local Urgent Care facility. She texts back that she will meet me there.

When I arrive at Urgent Care, the receptionist informs me that they do not have the facilities to treat my asthma, I am instructed to go to the ER.

The ER is a difficult place for me. It is where the ambulance took Peg after her fall and subsequent stroke. It is where I held her hand before the ambulance transferred her to a different hospital, a hospital that could handle neurosurgery.

I no longer take routes that lead me past our hospital. I go out of the way to avoid the memories. We have a good hospital, the men and women at both hospitals were an enormous help keeping Peg comfortable until I came to the conclusion that Peg would go into hospice and I would take her home to die with her beloved animals, our family and myself.

Those words were extremely difficult to write. I fell into a coughing fit and now I have to stop and allow my body to recover from the flow of hormones and endorphins, which if I am not careful, can cause me great physical harm.

At this time, a few days before the new year, I am only sure of one thing. I want Peg back.

Why did you do it?


I was hiding in a muddy ditch, the run-off water from the war-torn landscape surrounding me was pouring over the top of my boots. I felt the cold water running down my legs around my ankles, filling the void between my feet, my socks, and the worn leather boots, one of the few possessions I had: boots, the clothing on my back, and what was left of my self-esteem. The only things remaining from the long love affair with my beloved.

A line of enemy soldiers was walking slowly on the road above me. I stayed deathly quiet hoping not to be discovered. To the solders, marching the road in the twilight, I would be seen as one of the many corpses rolled off the road, shot so they wouldn’t interfere with the flow of the war machinery and troops moving to establish a new battle front. Some of my comrades rolled into the ditch were still alive, groaning from mortal wounds, not a threat to the enemy anymore. I was one of them, but alive enough to be a threat.

One of the soldiers looked my way, something about how my body was positioned attracted her attention. She broke ranks; drawing her pistol, she walked directly to me and stood over me. From my chest down position, I straightened and defiantly confronted her.

This was a take-no-prisoners war, no Geneva conventions, no rules, just unmitigated hate for another human being. Humanity was now God-less.

She calmly raised her pistol, cocked the hammer, aimed directly at my forehead and fired.

Her pistol discharges: An awful blast ensued in front of me, causing the bones in my face to vibrate and my teeth to chatter.

Ha, you missed me, I thought, my body propelled backward into the ditch already dead from the wound.

I must have shifted in my sleep because my dream also changed course: They say the body takes an average of eight minutes to die after the last breath. I always wanted to find that answer and what it was like to die. No one came back from the dead to let me know. Now, I have the answer. It would be good if I could tell others what dying was like, that would be my contribution to the ultimate knowledge of the Universe. I had obviously committed suicide by gun-shot. I thought about it: I could have used the meds, or cut my arteries, I know how to cut, a remnant from my former life.

Angel nudged my dream-state: “Well, it’s done now. You have left those who love you to grieve and sort it out, which is the downside that we spoke of many times.” My Angel was very distressed over my sudden decision to let go.

“Angel, I didn’t want to give you, or anyone time to interfere with my plans. If I was going to go, it had to be quick. I simply had to join my beloved in the Universe. The longer I waited, the more difficult it would become to catch up with her.” 

My poor Angel, after all those years waiting to help me cross the Vail, I didn’t give her time to show me an alternative.

“I can fix this and make it just a bad dream.”

With Angel’s words, I awoke with a start.

“What am I doing?” I cried out to no one. Angel rapidly retreated back into my subconscious.


Peg is gone and I can’t get her back. I want to join her on her journey into the Universe, I want to be with her. These are my thoughts and the content of many dreams about taking my life. However, I cannot bring her back; taking my own life to be with her would rule out any possibility of my writing about her passing.

Two months ago, Peg passed into the Universe and began her new Journey. Instead of a physical being, she is now comprised of pure energy, which contains the very essence of her soul.

The date of her passing, Oct 5th 2020, will never leave my memory. Now when I know the 5th of each month is coming, I automatically slip into the condition of grieving for her. My grief causes adrenalin and cortisol to flood my body. Both hormones are designed to protect my physical body from danger. Contrary to their purpose, the hormones wreak havoc with my physical health.     

Widower, a condition not exactly similar to widowhood. It is the difference between men and women and must be treated as so. I hope my explanation of my journey into being a widower will enlighten many, especially men, who find themselves in my position. 

We had been married for fifty-two years. She was the love of my life, and now I am without her trying to make sense of what my new life will be like.

In the room where I write, every day I look out the window and see a doe walking by – it seems the little doe appears at the times I need reassurance.

Writing is the most important thing I can do to preserve my loved one’s memory and to keep my sanity. Nevertheless, I have entered a new world of voluntary insanity, magical and irrational thinking, that if it weren’t for being a grieving widower, I might be committed. 

I have a habit of going out of the house most nights, just before darkness covers me with the peaceful still of the night. The quiet of the night is my time to communicate with the Universe. Now I also communicate with her soul, sometimes in the form of that doe.

I talk to the doe out loud just as I would if my loved one was still living. My loved one is now living in a new form, one of the wonders of the Universe. The doe stays quite still and looks directly at me. I receive my answers in the form of a mysterious telepathy that only lovers in a long-term relationship understand; a feeling, in place of an actual conversation or simply a poignant glance.

The Universe now supplies me with many opportunities to communicate with Peg’s soul. The doe is one example, other animals, found objects from our past, even changes in the weather allow me to remain in contact with her.

Now she is gone, her soul is everywhere around me, I only need to take a break from my grieving to receive her communications. It is true I will no longer be able to possess her physically, greatly adding to my distress at her passing. My ability to communicate with her soul is still as strong as it ever was when she was physically living; we would sit quietly in each other’s presence and know intuitively what was on the other person’s mind.


I offer my story of Peg’s passing into the Universe and my journey to find my way after her death, in the hopes you will see some parallels to comfort you on your journey surviving the loss of your loved one.

Day in and Day Out

I am enveloped in a fog, a mist; I reside in a magical place, a place between two worlds. One commonly spoken of as reality, and another place, the dream world where I can once again live with Peg.

It is dusk now, figuratively in the sense that I am coming to the end of my own life, and actually dusk, a forbidden time for me. Dusk can be a time of incredible beauty or a time of great sorrow. A time for crying and for dying. A time of gratitude for a day and a life well lived. Or a time spent reflecting on a great loss.

The yin and the yang, happiness and hopelessness, richness and loss. A jumble of emotions, which overload my neural networks and cause me great confusion. A place of in-between.

I have been living here, in this place of in-between for months. Not fully being able to understand what happened to me, what happened to us, the us forged over a lifetime of living in each other’s company. 

It is worse now. Four months from when she died and my daily grieving is unrelentless. Everything I think about, even my dreams, trigger my realization that Peg is gone. The worst times are when I awake from a dream state where I actually can hear her and feel her body next to mine, exactly as it was, perfect in every detail as if I had gone back to the morning when we both got up to start the day, the day when she died.

Grieving upsets my whole body, not just my mind. My body has been finely tuned, tuned to operate on a schedule learned and reaffirmed from all of my daily experiences. Tuned to live everyday with Peg. With Peg’s death, my mind and body suffered a terrible shock. Now nothing is as it was before. A huge part of me, the part that was Peg, is now missing. I can barely function with the pathetic part, me, that still exists.

It is common wisdom that the longer our loving relationship was, the greater the depth of despair.

Looking through the research online offered for the bereaved, I found a number of similarities to my experiences and the experiences of other widowers. Confusion, chest pains, headaches, heart aches, shortness of breath, depression, unexplained body pains, weight loss, weight gain, nightmares, not enough sleep, too much sleep. The list is endless, all caused by a mind/body combination seriously compromised by a great trauma. The trauma of losing my dearly beloved.

In the first month after her death I was stunned, falling into a condition of doing the daily chores and finishing the needed paperwork caused by her death, I was on auto-pilot. Then as weeks wore on, I was forced to create a new daily routine without Peg. The persistent reminders of our life together and the realization that she was never coming back got the best of me.

One day the pain in my chest became very great and would not subside. I knew I didn’t have heart trouble, for in the past I kept a regular schedule of physical exams, no heart abnormality was found. I began to believe it was the well-known broken-heart syndrome, Takotsubo cardiomyopathy. Although serious, I read the symptoms tend to lessen over time. I decided not to pursue it with a cardiologist, preferring to wait longer and call my doctor. 

My doctor, a man younger than I but experienced with the elderly, returned my call promptly. I told him of my plight. My doctor knows I prefer not to take prescription medicines unless I absolutely have to. He prescribed a medicine used to treat surgery anxiety and pain. The medicine did not have to be taken every day to be effective. I could use it on demand. The downside is that it is a powerful sedative and I shouldn’t drive or expect to be a productive writer while it is in my system. One pill a day when needed is the prescription. It is very effective. I take it on occasion when my grief becomes overwhelming.

I know what I am doing, I am buying time to allow me the needed consideration of what has happened. Time to piece together a new life, a life without Peg.


It is 4:30 a.m., I awake fully expecting to hear and feel Peg lying next to me. It is not to be, she is gone and never coming back. I burst into heaves of crying, tears upon tears, sob after sob without any breaks until I am finally spent of that memory, which triggered such strong emotion.

I lie in bed not wanting to get up, time passes, 5:30, then 7, and my Protestant work ethic prods me from my tear-stained pillow and the warm comfort of our bed. It will be another day of very little productivity and great pain. The medicine works well, almost too well. My chest pain subsides and I enter into a quiet, peaceful wakefulness.

I talk to Peg, asking her to wait for me. I will be along soon enough. I ask for her forgiveness for any transgression and pain I may have caused her during our time together. No answer is immediately forthcoming, I wish it was. These are the questions I will have to answer on my own, making the pain of her loss much greater.

To those of faith in the power of the Universe, it is known the answers may not come immediately, nor in a form I would expect, but the answers will come over time. Time is one of the problems. The first two years after a great loss is a dangerous time for widowers. The odds of taking my own life to be with Peg are very high. The thought of being with her considerably outweighs the life of pain I am enduring now.

Several years ago, Peg and I put together a plan of yearly spending in case we needed help several times a week or daily to keep us in our home as long as we could. Those plans and the proper papers to allow an orderly transfer of joint assets to the survivor allowed us to create a budget to pay for the needed help. We have been fortunate in having a number of qualified people willing to serve us if the time and need came. Well, that time and need is here.

The way I feel now, grieving so intently, I wouldn’t be able to care for myself easily without help. I do not want to burden our children or our friends with what has become my daily needs.

Our world is in the grip of a global pandemic, Covid-19, greatly complicating my basic needs of shopping and housekeeping and taking care of the cats and our goat, let alone satisfying my need for contact with another person. The nights are the worst, I am alone.

When Peg had her stroke in October of 2020, the Covid-19 lockdown had been lifted at the hospital, I was able to be with her in the ICU and arrange hospice. I came to the realization Peg would not want to live with her considerable infirmities caused by her stroke. Peg’s health power stipulated she did not want extraordinary health care intervention. Peg would rather die in the comfort of her home with her beloved cats, her children and me.

Peg passed away within four days of bringing her home. Still, I ask myself daily if there was anything I could have done, in retrospect, that would have created a different outcome for Peg. These are the questions that make my grieving so difficult as well as the constant vision and remembrance of Peg’s last hours.

During our fifty-two-year relationship, we were together most of the time, except for nights when I traveled for business or the few times I indulged in a hobby where I would need to stay away overnight. We were always together, which included the fact we slept in the same bed for our entire relationship.

Peg and I often discussed the cases of elderly couples dying within hours of each other. We felt we were always connected to each other’s hearts. I seemed to know Peg’s thinking intuitively without asking. In our bed during the night, I was awakened before Peg moved around in bed. She would ask, “Did I wake you?” “No,” I would reply. “I was already awake.” Which was the truth, I had anticipated the change in Peg’s natural sleeping rhythm even as I was sleeping.   

In a study done by Emilio Ferrer, a UC Davis psychology professor who conducted a series of studies on couples in romantic relationships, he found that couples connected to monitors measuring heart rates and respiration get their heart rates in sync, and they breathe in and out at the same intervals. This fact was important to me when I read this quote from Mimi Guarneri, MD, “Couples at night, their heart rhythm goes into a synchronized pattern, which raises some very interesting issues. What happens when that pattern is broken? Or it’s not there?”

Peg is no longer here with me. Not only is the synchronized pattern broken, no familiar pattern exists for me. I am broken, trying desperately to make a future out of the torn remnants of our past.     



I consider many of the stories I write are a prophecy of things to come. I believe this because I believe in the quantum of quantum physics.

There is a possibility of many parallel Universes in existence at the same time. They are completely identical except for the outcome. Within this line of thinking, I become responsible for my future and its outcome.

For me the quantum part means that I see quantum physics as if it were two parts: the unknown magical part, quantum and the physical part, science, known as physics.

All new concepts and discoveries are not believable at first. However, over time these ideas gain credence. I have my reasons to believe that I am one of many who have a glimmering about the magical part of quantum.  

I believe that some of these multi-universes operate in the realm of the supernatural as we are becoming, however rudimentary, to understand. The realm of the spirit world of angels, demons, souls and spirits. The all-knowing Universe that I write about. 

Peg was my lifeline, analogous to the ‘line’ in my story, The Tight Wire.

Peg saved me by being my ‘line,’ which I held onto for dear life. Alas, she was also my safety net, which allowed me to take chances and walk a different line. With her I was able to constantly, but carefully, step outside my safety zone.

With Peg’s passing, my lifeline wire is fraying.

I believe Peg’s arrival in my life was by design, design of my own making, a quantum design, not the responsibility of my beloved Universe. I am prophesying my own future in the way I conduct my daily life and, in my thinking, and writing. I simply do not know the outcome in advance.

Now that Peg is on her next Journey, my lifeline is no longer connected to any substance. I am falling.

I am desperately trying to find my way without the aid of any light; falling through an endless void with no compass. My Angel is not there to illuminate my way, she is there only to help me complete my earthly journey, no matter what the ending will be.

In my story, I Make my Future, I address my own need to make my future by envisioning many quantum outcomes. The one I choose will be the way life goes for me.

There is no bottom to my fall this time; this is it. I am prepared to join Peg, or make a different outcome.

Excerpts from some of my stories are set below. I leave it to you to see the intimate connection of the words, which are there only, because as a writer, I am compelled to write the chain of words even if I do not understand them and their connection with the future.  

Excerpts from The Tight Wire

There was less than a thousand feet to go. The wire was heating up, the grease working itself out between the fine strands. During all the years he had spent learning, he found the wire had a life of its own, telling him everything, telegraphing its feelings through the buffalo hide soles of his slippers. But now, the wire was telling him it was dying.

Prepared in France, the wire was the finest of its kind, very strong, attention had been paid when it was woven. As always, he had supervised the rigging for this walk, spending hours going from side to side checking the tension and the security of the anchors. This change in temperature was unexpected. He had waited for three days for overcast, cool weather, with no wind. Halfway through, the sun broke through the clouds and warmed the wire. Had the gods parted the clouds to peer down at his walk? The tightwire began to slacken from the heat; a fresh breeze made balance difficult. He must have offended the gods; one cannot walk wire without the consent of the gods.

Walking was the province of the gods. You must always be in grace with the gods because only they prevented your fall.

Wallenda fell in South America, they said he didn’t supervise the rigging. He had offended the gods by calling it, `The Last Great Walk.’

He had been afraid before. At first, he felt paralyzed, his legs turned to lead, he stopped and balanced. The braided wire dropped one inch; the ends of his pole deflected up one inch. He began to walk and then run across the tightwire, the weight of 38 years of life left his body. He was light; he flew across a wire that was no longer pressed against the callused, godless soles of his feet.

When I wrote these words, I intuitively knew my life was intertwined with Peg. If Peg passed, my lifeline would become unraveled. How would I be able to exist without her?

Excerpts from I Make My Future

My future does not exist until I do something to move from my present energy place to some other energy place.

Tomorrow is an empty place. It doesn’t exist until I fill it. I can fill tomorrow with today or I can fill tomorrow with something new.

I have the power to change tomorrow by changing the energy of tomorrow by my greatest power, my thoughts.

This is my example of the power of Quantum thought. I think it, so it will be. My current state of grief is causing me great mental and physical harm.

My conundrum: here, with Peg’s infinite living energy around me and finish out my life on earth, or leave my earthly life now and join Peg in completeness in the Universe.

I believe in Life after Death but still, while currently falling through the void, I must find a reason to want to stay here. Only with that reason will I be able to arrest my fall.


Excerpt from Life after Earthly Death

It is said: physicist Stephen Hawking’s believed that after death, we simply turn to dust. If I believe his teachings and I have something important to contribute, I need to contribute it now. Or, is there an alternative?


Apparently, Hawking’s also believed that the Universe and Time all began at the same moment, the moment of the Big Bang: a theory that is all his science can prove, so in a way, as great a thinker as he was, he was held hostage by his science.


Personally, I am not held hostage because I do not need to prove anything and I have a different understanding of Time. Although rarely discussed, Time is the important part of the puzzle. The Big Bang was 13.8 billion years ago: an unfathomable period of Time for a human, but perhaps a mere blip in the life of a spirit or an Angel.

My explanation and knowledge of Time is why I know I will be back. I won’t need to wait another 13.8 billion years, because new Universes are created all the time. Other Universes are running concurrently with ours. Everything I do, say, or write is flowing into the other Universes as wisdom.

I am here, and there, in the same moment, but nevertheless, different. My contribution is made now, here, and in a different Universe concurrently. My spirit is in multiple Universes at once. I know.


Two Doors

Two doors in front of you stand closed.

Which to take? One enters on the realities of life, atomic dirt and strife.

The very thing you now despise.

The other enters upon your dreams, mystic clear and clean.

The very thing you idolize.

Now you must decide.

Each is clearly marked.

Some will choose the door marked life, to conquer all its dreadful stink,

and by winning self-esteem find the door marked dreams.

Some will open the other door and through the power of their dreams,

gain the strength to stand before the door marked life.

Some will exist forever, their hand outstretched into the air, and never open either door.

They will need no life, nor have no dreams.

The point: I find it is possible for me to live in the boundary between the multi-universes. I only know I live in this boundary after I read what I write, otherwise I consider my existence in this boundary normal and realistic and not magical thinking. My wish is that the above explanation will give you new insight into my thinking and how I believe I make my way through life by living the ending in advance. I will, therefore I am. 

Two Doors

Two Doors

Two doors in front of you stand closed.

Which to take? One enters on the realities of life, atomic dirt and strife.

The very thing you now despise.

The other enters upon your dreams, mystic clear and clean.

The very thing you idolize.

Now you must decide.

Each is clearly marked.

Some will choose the door marked life, to conquer all its dreadful stink,

and by winning self-esteem find the door marked dreams.

Some will open the other door and through the power of their dreams,

gain the strength to stand before the door marked life.

Some will exist forever, their hand outstretched into the air,

They will need no life, nor have no dreams and never open either door.