Every Tuesday, when the bells ring in the university district in the evening, I know it again: He died in my arms to that sound, he is truly dead. Nine months ago, after three years of illness that intruded between my husband and me like an unloved lover. The cancer he hadn't sought, which found him and relentlessly demanded its respect: capricious it was. We respect it and humbly organize our lives according to its whims and those of the coronavirus. But how can I still treat my husband lovingly and respectfully when the illness changes his nature so that he is no longer the person I thought I knew? Where do I put the great anger at the unlived life together? Where do I put our constant sadness? What is still important today, we ask ourselves every day. What is it really about, I ask myself every Tuesday when the church bells ring.
