A Confession of Regret

Yesterday as I drove home from work I found myself thinking of Michael.  He has been often on my mind lately.
 

One evening about two months before he passed on, Michael called me from his bed, where he spent most of his days.  He was already having a hard time standing and walking and whenever he attempted to, he would sometimes fall on the floor despite my support.
 

Michael  revealed that he cheated.  He confessed that he kept forbidden  hidden under his pillow.  It was the end of the day and not only was I physically exhausted, I was an emotional mess.   The Oncologist had warned me of the impending end once Michael starts having problems with standing and walking.  Part of me knew I would lose my husband. But an even greater part of me was in-denial. 
 

I reacted to Michael's confession rather stoically. I just did not know what to say.  I could not find it in myself to be upset and deny my husband what little happiness  he could get out of his remaining time, even if only from cigarettes.  So I hid my disappointment and bit my tongue.
 

And then he thanked me for sticking it out with him and began  talking about after he is gone.  

At that point, my stomach started churning.  I  abruptly changed the topic.  I told Michael  that I had to do something in the kitchen.   I could not bear the idea that my husband would no longer be around.
 

We never talked about his "departure" again until that day he passed on when he told me that he will always  be with me.
 

People say that we should never have regrets. But I have them. And they gnaw at my soul.

I regret leaving Michael's room that one particular evening. I regret not having listened to what he wanted to tell me.  I regret having sacrificed  precious time  and my husband's thoughts in favor of my cowardice and inability to face reality.
 

As I write this confession, rain is pouring in the darkness outside my window.

 

Michael Murphy III

  

- Ariel Murphy