Most people need to hear those "three little words" I love you. Once in a while, they hear
them just in time.
I met Connie the day she was admitted to the hospice ward, where I worked as a volunteer.
Her husband, Bill, stood nervously nearby as she was transferred from the gurney to the
hospital bed. Although Connie was in the final stages of her fight against cancer, she was
alert and cheerful. We got her settled in. I finished marking her name on all the hospital
supplies she would be using, then asked if she needed anything.
Oh, yes, she said, "would you please show me how to use the TV? I enjoy the soaps so much
and I don't want to get behind on what's happening." Connie was a romantic. She loved soap
operas, romance novels and movies with a good love story. As we became acquainted, she
confided how frustrating it was to be married 32 years to a man who often called her "a
silly woman."
Oh, I know Bill loves me, she said, "but he has never been one to say he loves me, or send
cards to me." She sighed and looked out the window at the trees in the courtyard. "I'd
give anything if he'd say 'I love you,' but it's just not in his nature."
Bill visited Connie every day. In the beginning, he sat next to the bed while she watched
the soaps. Later, when she began sleeping more, he paced up and down the hallway outside
her room. Soon, when she no longer watched television and had fewer waking moments, I began
spending more of my volunteer time with Bill.
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 sentimental1 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 to her. You shoulda seen her smile!"
I went into the room to say my own goodbye to Connie. There, on the bedside table, was a
large Valentine card from Bill. You know, the sentimental kind that says, "To my wonderful
wife... I love you."