It was a spectacular afternoon on Sunday, June 27, 1976. It had rained every Sunday for three weeks straight, but on this day, the sun shone.
“For better or worse. Till death do you part,” said our rabbi, as Steve and I shared the moment — excited and nervous — under a canopy on my uncle’s sprawling lawn, surrounded by our family and friends.
Almost 50 years later, Steve lay in the palliative care unit in a New York hospital while I lay in our bed, less than three miles away. On that still April night, my cellphone jarred me out of much-needed sleep. “Your husband passed away a few minutes ago,” the nurse told me. “It was peaceful. I saw the photo by his bedside. What a beautiful family.”
I had left the snapshot by Steve’s bedside months ago, to remind the staff that he was a person who was healthy once, and very much loved.
But I wasn’t at his side when he died. Staff had chased me out that evening, upholding Covid-era restrictions and curfews. The last thing I said to him as I held his hand, black and blue from the IV needles, was, “You’re my world. I love you. You’ve made my life so happy. See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
He crept out of a coma-like sleep and smiled.
After I hung up the phone, I dressed, washed my face and wailed, not caring if my neighbors heard me. Then I called a car service. For the first time in my life, I felt intense despair, deep in the pit of my stomach. All hope and prayers for Steve to get better vanished.
There was never a day when my husband and I didn’t say to each other, “I love you.”
I didn’t know who to turn to for support. He was my anchor, my go-to person whenever I had a question, an idea, or the littlest, most banal something happened. There was never a day when my husband and I didn’t say to each other, “Good morning.” “Have a good night’s sleep.” “I love you.”
Steve and Ann, Ann and Steve. Our names, intertwined, always sounded so perfect together. How could I go forward without him?
From neighbors to soulmates
We grew up a block apart in a New York City blue-collar neighborhood, but we didn’t know each other until we were both teachers at P.S. 20 in Fort Greene in Brooklyn. Thanks to some casual pleasantries, Steve and I discovered we were raised in the same neighborhood and went to the same schools, but never knew one another. I was a grade ahead, which made all the difference as a teen.
Was it love at first sight? Far from it.
It was only after, in the early hours of the morning and coming out of deep sleep, a little voice, like a dream, acknowledged Steve’s best qualities that I truly realized them. “He’s good-looking, smart, compassionate and levelheaded with the best common sense on the planet.”
It made me look at him differently. Those blue eyes. How could I not have noticed them before?
A week later, after dinner at an outdoor cafe followed by a Fellini movie that I didn’t understand, someone held someone’s hand. And that was it. Neither of us ever wanted to let go. And we didn’t. Until.
We were married for 45 years. Not able to have children, we devoted ourselves to our careers, an apartment in Manhattan, a cottage upstate where Steve’s garden flourished, and a beloved dog, Cassie.
We grew our lives together, side by side. Steve developed a successful career as an advertising executive, and I began working in corporate human resources. Even though our salaries were good, having grown up in households where a lack of money was a constant challenge, we saved. We had no pensions. So, we saved even more.
We fantasized about retirement. Then, we thought, we could finally relax. We could be at the cottage more. We could travel more. We’d have time to explore new hobbies. Steve’s dream was to visit Buenos Aires, where his father was born. Living in Europe for a few months was mine. A retirement specialist advised us in our 50s, “Just keep doing what you’re doing. You’re in great shape.”
Then, before we got to spend the money on all the things we’d been dreaming up for years, Steve died. We’d saved and saved, and it bothers me that he didn’t live long enough to enjoy what we’d worked so hard for, and that we’d never do those things we spent so many days talking about together.
Even though Steve was ill for several years, I never allowed myself to think for one moment that he could die. It’s the part of life and adulthood that I wasn’t ready for. It’s the part I put out of my mind and our life together. “He will get well,” I told myself many times. But too often it doesn’t work out that way. If you’re a woman aged 65 or older, there’s roughly a 2 in 5 chance you’re already widowed, and those odds rise sharply with age. If you’re a man who’s 65, it’s closer to 1 in 8, but those odds increase by over 40 percent by the time you’re 85 or older.
When you get married, you only think about everything that you’ll do together. You celebrate the traditional idea of “two becoming one.” But nothing prepared me for what happens when two become one at the end, and you’re the one that’s left.
Lessons grief can’t teach
My mother lost two husbands. My mother-
in-law lost one. Even though I saw each of them go through the deaths of their husbands, it didn’t give me any real sense of how hard it actually is. They never spoke about their experiences. It seems like few people do, even though in the United States, between 900,000 and 1.5 million people lose a spouse each year. This includes both men and women. But there was no passed-down wisdom or past conversations for me to call upon when my turn came. Losing your spouse — a life experience that many who have the good fortune to get old have the misfortune to experience — was uncharted territory. And I didn’t have a map to navigate this new reality.
There are the practical things, like accounts and bills and keeping a home up and running. Steve was in charge of our finances. He was good at it — watched financial news, followed the markets and made conservative decisions. Now I’m in charge. He showed me the files before each of his many hospitalizations. But that wasn’t enough. It’s taken me years to figure out how to manage the accounts myself. At our cottage, neighboring houses are scattered, blackouts are frequent, and I don’t have many friends. There’s no super to fix things, and Steve enjoyed tinkering with things enough to repair them. I’m learning and reaching out to people.
Then there are the intangible things — the stuff that you can’t call a handyman about or research online. When you lose your person, you lose an aspect of your identity — a loss that is also felt during the transition into retirement. You were once a corporate manager with a team, now you’re a lone retiree. You were once a wife, now you’re a widow. It’s a one-two punch. With the loss of personal identity also comes the loss of a schedule, personal connections, to-dos, conversations and goals. What do you do with your day? Who are you? Who do you ask when you can’t answer that yourself?
Even though I saw my mother and mother-in-law go through the deaths of their husbands, it didn’t give me any real sense of how hard it actually is.
These practical and intangible realities swirl together like milk into coffee; there’s no parsing them out. One day, I’m learning about the electrical box, and the next, I’m looking at our burial plots, remembering what Steve asked of me. “If I die first, I want you to be with someone. I don’t want you to be alone. But promise me you’ll be buried next to me.” It took me two years to finally choose a double headstone. On the left is Steve’s inscription, and on the right is mine, minus my death date. And life goes on.
It’s taken me four years to accept my new identity — a widow, a retiree, senior, single. Right after my birthday this year, I realized that at 76, I have more years behind me than in front of me. It’s time to enjoy the time I have left. Suddenly, I sleep better and cry less as I plan my future.
I’m figuring out what I want from life. I still want to travel, even if I don’t get to live in Europe with Steve for a few months. So I’m signing up for trips. I’ll visit my brother and make plans so I’m not alone for the holidays.
This chapter of my life is a second identity and a new stage for me. “Getting back out there” looks different when you’re older. With the aging process, you can’t do some things that you used to. I used to race marathons and triathlons, but I can’t anymore. It’s too much strain on my body. I’m finding out who I am without Steve and who I am in the body that I have now. In my own ways, I’ve learned that there are accommodations that you make to find new ways to enjoy yourself. That includes giving back, instead of taking things, from life.
I know I have to move on, even when I feel lost. Even if there’s only the memories, and the push and pull to be resilient.
I’m making new connections — exploring volunteer opportunities, taking exercise classes and working with a therapist. I’ve even joined online dating. So far, I’ve texted with several men, flirted, graduated to FaceTime conversations, and met two of them in person. One tried to passionately kiss me when we met in a museum. The second man looked like a model and texted me after a day, saying how much he loved me, calling me his soulmate. The next morning, I saw, the site administrator had pulled his profile for inappropriate behavior with several women. It’s like the Wild West out there, but it’s mostly good fun and makes me feel like I’m a high schooler instead of a senior woman.
But even when things are feeling “normal,” I can hear a song or see a couple holding hands and find myself in a puddle of tears. When invited to a 50th wedding anniversary, I couldn’t bear the thought that Steve and I would never celebrate another anniversary. Sometimes I want to curl up and die.
“Mourning is work and it has a goal,” says Dr. Eric R. Marcus, professor of clinical psychiatry at Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons. “The goal is to move an internal representation of the loved one from reality to blessed memory. Then, to use that memory to accompany the person through the rest of their life’s journey, encouraging them and supporting their further growth and development. It is difficult work because at first, the loss experience overwhelms the preservation experience. Later, it is difficult because of guilt about proceeding with life.”
But I know I have to move on, even when I feel lost. Even if there’s no replacement, only the memories. And the push and pull to be resilient.
After my mother was widowed and until she passed away at 87, she filled her life up. She learned how to read and write in Hebrew, joined a seniors group, tutored children. She stayed active. I am my mother’s daughter.
And although I know Steve will always be with me, he made sure I wouldn’t be alone.
While on life support, using his iPad, he put a deposit on a newly born puppy. He watched videos of the litter and selected the one for us. The morning he passed away, I received a call. “It’s time to meet your puppy.”
I met our puppy, Romeo, the following week on my birthday, and brought him home on Steve’s and my wedding anniversary. He can be a handful sometimes, but I can’t help but adore him. Every morning, he’s cuddled next to me and I whisper, “I love you.”
This story appears in the September 2025 issue of DeseretMagazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.