Family
I Never Thought I'd Lose My Spouse Before My Mom
She was 100; he was only 73.
Over a decade ago, a psychic told me I was going to be a widow. I’d say those were pretty good odds. Either I was going to die before my husband or he would pass away before me. A 50/50 chance.
A few months ago, her prediction came true. My husband passed away after a long illness, the last two years of which were spent mostly in a hospital bed in what had once been our shared bedroom. His days were comprised of watching me flit around the room chattering and watching his favorite TV shows.
I always left the house by myself, living a widow’s life, although he was still alive.
For the past five years prior to his death, I was also taking care of my mother, who at the time of my husband’s passing was two months shy of one hundred and one. Given her age and dementia, the odds were that my husband would most certainly outlive my mother. If I had been in Las Vegas, that would have been my bet. In this case, the house would have won.
My husband passed away while my mother was sitting in her chair, reading the closed captions on a Hallmark movie. Due to dementia, she was unaware of my grief. Instead, she was transfixed by the TV, wondering when my late father would step off the screen and back into her life.
After the crowds left, I turned to the person I needed most: my mother. I did not expect much, but I received less than that.
She sat in her chair, focused on the TV. I had to be careful not to crush her as I wrapped my arms around her frail body. I sobbed and told her my husband, her son-in-law, had just died. Her response was even more heartbreaking than my news. She shifted her head to the right in order to get a better view of the screen.
In that moment, I cried for my husband, my mother and for myself.
As the days passed, although my mother was living in her own world, her physical presence became a comfort. I shared the difficulties I was having with the business side of death — the long calls involving insurance, banking and his veterans’ benefits.
She would nod and smile, but I knew she had no idea what I was talking about. Many times, I had no idea either. Words spewed out of me, filling the emptiness left by my husband’s absence.
The smallest actions carried the heaviest grief.
While making my mom her coffee, I thought about how much my husband loved Splenda. I would count the ripped yellow packets scattered on the now-empty spoon rest. If I counted three packets, it was time to switch from regular to decaf. Who knew emptiness could weigh so much?
While cutting up my mom’s chicken and potatoes, I would flash on doing the same thing for my husband. My hands would reach for a second plate, ready to chop up my husband’s dinner.
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When giving my mother her nightly pill, I would instinctively head for my husband’s medicine shelf before realizing what I was doing.
And then, as fate would have it, my world spun on its axis once again.
While at the market, looking for the hypoallergenic detergent my husband insisted I buy, my mother passed away quietly in her wheelchair in front of the TV. Whether my father walked out of the TV and took her hand will remain a mystery.
I do know that the day before she died, my granddaughter heard my mother call my husband’s name. Was his spirit in the room? Had they planned to set me free of my obligations, dying seven weeks apart?
Events happen in mysterious ways. My beliefs about the afterlife are fluid, ever-changing as I age. I like to think my husband and mother are as connected in death as they were in life and that their new caregivers are as kind and angelic as the ones on earth.
While I wait for their memorials, they sit side by side on my dresser, spending more time together than they had in the past five years. I hear my mother doling out her Jewish advice and making sure everyone has enough to eat and my husband saying, “Knock it off, Mom,” in that lovingly sarcastic voice of his.
I talk to them both, not expecting an answer. In that respect, my days are no different than before.
But life has taken on a different rhythm. No caregivers, no time schedule. No one to answer to but myself.
Our room, void of pills, pads and large medical equipment, has left room for forty years of healthy memories to reenter. I can feel my husband’s arms holding me up as my mother’s positive energy propels me forward.
I know they are both betting on me to continue living my best possible life. I won’t let them down.
Janie Emaus is the author of the blended holiday picture books, Latkes for Santa Claus, a finalist in the 2022 International Book Awards, and Easter Eggs & Matzo Balls. Her third picture book, Mrs. Claus’s Noodle Kugel, will be released in September 2026. She is also the author of the novels The Advice Columnist and The Time Traveling Matchmaker. Her essays, stories and articles have been published in numerous magazines, anthologies and websites. To learn more about Janie, visit janieemaus.com.
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