Letter: ‘Ditto’ As Used With Devotion

The day before Valentine’s Day, one year ago, the Oncologist turned from the computer screen where she had been reading my wife’s report, and she said, looking at my wife laying there on the tilted-back exam chair and then at me sitting nearby, holding my wife’s hand:

“You’ve reached the end of the journey. You’ve battled well, but there’s nothing more we can do. Would you like to be here in the hospital when the end comes, or would you rather be at home?”

My wife of 50 years turned her head and looked at me with a brave attempt at a smile.

I bit my lip, the tears began, and the doctor handed me the box of Kleenex.

On the eve of the day to celebrate romance and love, we headed home.

She looked at me as we drove along and asked “how are you doing?”

“Not good.”

She didn’t say ditto. She didn’t have to. She didn’t say anything at all.

I held her hand while driving. I held her hand at the stop lights. I removed my hand to shift, but her hand was waiting for mine to return.

Thirty-five days later she was gone.

We were at home.

I was holding her hand.

I remember, oh how I remember, the first time I held her hand.

First just her palm, then fingers intertwined.

And so it was, ditto, how I felt at the end.