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One afternoon, shortly after her death, I was feeling desperately alone, yearning for her. Then, impulsively, I bolted out of the house to go to the hospice in Daegu, where she had been bedridden for months until she died. One of my five children was always there alternately to look after her and keep a round-the-clock vigil at her bedside. I also went there every other day, even though she implored me not to. I sat quietly in the corner of the ward, saying prayers to Gautama Buddha, beseeching for mercy to help her suffer no more and let her rest peacefully, if that was her destiny. It was heartrending to hear her groaning feebly every now and then.
I was going to see my wife again by traveling backwards in time. Although she was not there anymore, I thought I could evoke the memories of her image by looking at her former bed in the hospice. When I got to the hospital two hours later by train, subway and bus, I was overwhelmed to look at the familiar facade of the white building where only terminal patients and their family members are allowed to stay temporarily.
Regretfully, however, I was ruthlessly turned back at the entrance. Later, coming home, I was thinking that I might have looked a little suspicious because of my miserable look and shabby, unkempt appearance.
I usually don't pay much attention to my personal grooming. After my wife passed away, I seem to have less concern about my personal care. I don't remember when I went to a barbershop last, because I had my own hairdresser who was my wife.
There're times when I need to find something in her room. But I'm a bit hesitant and cautious to walk in there. I always come across something that recalls emotional memories of her and our past, bringing tears to my eyes. Everything is still there as they were when she had lived there.
On the nightstand by her bed is a framed portrait of my smiling wife in watercolor. It was painted by my art-major daughter years before she fell seriously ill. The caption she wrote in pencil said: "My dear mother who looks prettier than a flower." Next to it stands a long-necked white flower vase with red and white roses, her favorite flowers. When she was confined to bed at home, I used to fill the vase with fresh flowers, hoping she would feel better by looking at them. Now, the flowers in the vase are artificial ones, still as pretty as fresh flowers.
I have two pet animals in the house, a dog and a cat. They came to us as a puppy and a kitten almost at the same time over two decades ago. I was stunned and saddened when our veterinarian told me recently that they were now over 80 years old in human years and that the dog was nearly deaf ― like me. In addition to my poor eyesight and shaky hands, I have been carrying a disability card for being hard of hearing for years now. The cat (Max) is kind of humpbacked when she walks but he said she would be okay.
The furry companions have been a great pleasure and comfort for us for so long. It still rings in my ears now and then that my wife used to call out to me so often from her bed, telling me Max was meowing for food in the yard, because I didn't hear it. Now they are my only family and invaluable friends in the world empty of my wife.
The writer (yiwoowon1988@gmail.com), a retired teacher, resides in Waegwan, North Gyeongsang Province.
