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And one morning, when I left the hospice to feed our cats and make some calls, Frank died.

A chaplain led me by the hand to her office, and I sank to the floor, crying, deeply sad--and guilt-ridden--that I had not been with him at the very end.

The path that led me from wife to widow had been long, crooked, and painful.

I had spent the previous two years watching my husband fight, with grace and heartbreaking optimism, a rare and aggressive form of esophageal cancer.

When his cancer briefly disappeared, I rejoiced with him; when it reappeared, we despaired together.

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And this, the only appropriate designation, felt hard-earned.Frank's sickness and death belonged to him, but they had changed my life, too, making demands and requiring sacrifices.

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