第三章 有一种幸福叫守候（4）
《世界上最温情的故事》作者：吴文智 2017-04-14 12:57
第三章 有一种幸福叫守候（4）
He talked about having worked as a carpenter and how he liked to go fishing. He and Connie had no children, but they’d been enjoying retirement by traveling, until Connie got sick. Bill could not express his feelings about the fact that his wife was dying.
One day, over coffee in the cafeteria, I got him on the subject of women and how we need romance in our lives; how we love to get sentimental cards and love letters.
“Do you tell Connie you love her?” I asked (knowing his answer), and he looked at me as if I was crazy.
“I don’t have to,” he said. “She knows I do!”
“I’m sure she knows,” I said, reaching over and touching his hands rough, carpenter’s hands that were gripping the cup as if it were the only thing he had to hang onto. “But she needs to hear it, Bill. She needs to hear what she has meant to you all these years. Please think about it.”
We walked back to Connie’s room. Bill disappeared inside, and I left to visit another patient. Later, I saw Bill sitting by the bed. He was holding Connie’s hand as she slept. The date was February 12.
Two days later I walked down the hospice ward at noon. There stood Bill, leaning up against the wall in the hallway, staring at the floor. I already knew from the head nurse that Connie had died at 11 a.m.?
When Bill saw me, he allowed himself to come into my arms for a long time. His face was wet with tears and he was trembling. Finally, he leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath.
“I have to say something,” he said. “I have to say how good I feel about telling her.” He stopped to blow his nose. “I thought a lot about what you said, and this morning I told her how much I loved her? and loved being married t
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He talked about having worked as a carpenter and how he liked to go fishing. He and Connie had no children, but they’d been enjoying retirement by traveling, until Connie got sick. Bill could not express his feelings about the fact that his wife was dying.
One day, over coffee in the cafeteria, I got him on the subject of women and how we need romance in our lives; how we love to get sentimental cards and love letters.
“Do you tell Connie you love her?” I asked (knowing his answer), and he looked at me as if I was crazy.
“I don’t have to,” he said. “She knows I do!”
“I’m sure she knows,” I said, reaching over and touching his hands rough, carpenter’s hands that were gripping the cup as if it were the only thing he had to hang onto. “But she needs to hear it, Bill. She needs to hear what she has meant to you all these years. Please think about it.”
We walked back to Connie’s room. Bill disappeared inside, and I left to visit another patient. Later, I saw Bill sitting by the bed. He was holding Connie’s hand as she slept. The date was February 12.
Two days later I walked down the hospice ward at noon. There stood Bill, leaning up against the wall in the hallway, staring at the floor. I already knew from the head nurse that Connie had died at 11 a.m.?
When Bill saw me, he allowed himself to come into my arms for a long time. His face was wet with tears and he was trembling. Finally, he leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath.
“I have to say something,” he said. “I have to say how good I feel about telling her.” He stopped to blow his nose. “I thought a lot about what you said, and this morning I told her how much I loved her? and loved being married t