When Love Doesn’t End: The Quiet Ways My Wife Still Reaches Me

By Jackie Disch

As Katy took her last breath, a gentle thunderstorm popped up out of nowhere. I had been sitting next to her on the edge of the bed, listening as her breathing became irregular, worrying about her, in awe of her, wondering if the end was near. I was on full alert, my body and mind in the grip of exhaustion and grief. Yet I was also extremely tuned in to everything Katy. So when the steady rain and gentle thunder came, I smiled because I knew she loved those smells and sounds. It was at that time she chose to slip out, while I was distracted with opening the windows for her to hear better. It was fitting she left during this impromptu storm. I think maybe she was the storm.

Katy’s death was unexpected. In the midst of the COVID shutdown, she had two strokes, 10 days apart. One month to the day after the first stroke, Katy died. The second stroke affected her ability to speak. She would start out a sentence just fine only to end with unrecognizable words. Her speech worsened with each passing day, sprinkled with brief times of stunning clarity. Those moments filled me with hope. Maybe she was going to be okay, I thought, as my shoulders dropped with relief. But those moments passed just as quickly as they’d come, taking hope with them.

Thankfully, because we were so close and so often on the same wavelength, I learned to understand what she was saying. Maybe not word for word, but I understood. I affectionally referred to it as “Katy-speak.” It took so much energy and focus to maintain. It was like we were in a cocoon of our own making. That intuitive, psychic connection we shared throughout our 23 years together enabled us to understand one another when no one else did. What could have been a complete nightmare scenario became doable between us. I wish I could remember those conversations. As I’ve come out of the intensity of that time, I can only recall one word. I cling to it as a most valued treasure. It connects me back to our last lived time together.

Our communication did not end with her death. Before Katy died, we talked about ways she could contact me after she was gone. I asked her not to do anything scary (like messing with the lights or knocking on walls). Since we shared a sense of humor that bordered on the preposterous, we had a bit of fun with the ideas. We decided on a gentle touch, like on my shoulder or arm. So it didn’t surprise me when, at some point after she died, I was in bed listening to the rain fall and I felt a gentle push against my shoulder at the exact moment a rumble of thunder occurred. I knew it was Katy. I smiled. I said hello. I welcomed having her near. It brought me comfort in my sorrow.

About a month and a half after Katy died, she appeared in a dream for the first time. The dream had nothing to do with her death. It was just her and me hanging out together. I woke up with a happy heart. Katy also often visited me in the in-between space — just before waking up. During these times, I knew she was visiting me versus being in a dream because I could hear myself talking out loud to her. I didn’t do that when she was just in a dream. Each visit, each time I heard her voice or felt her near, helped to counter the pain, loneliness and emptiness I felt without her.

I never felt frightened or disturbed by these experiences. Quite the opposite, in fact. I felt more connected to Katy. Her presence helped me navigate life without her. She is always with me (though I may not always pay attention). Surprisingly, in grief, my love for her only grows, our bond only deepens. I fully believe in the ability of our loved ones to send us messages, from wherever they are, as a way to comfort us, to let us know they have not completely left us — and we have not left them — or to let us know they are okay.

A short while after Katy took her last breath, I went out to the front porch to get some fresh air. With tears streaming down my face, I noticed one end of a rainbow across the street, opposite from where I stood. I couldn’t see where it began or ended on our side, though Katy immediately came to mind. My breath caught when I saw the rainbow. I had asked Katy to give me a sign. I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful one.

Jackie Disch is a lifelong writer and the indie author of two poetry collections, “Life Forces a Journey” (2001) and “Hitting Bone” (2004), both part of the Tretter Collection in Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Studies at the University of Minnesota. Her latest book, “Losing Katy: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Living Grief,” was released in 2025. Born and raised in Wisconsin, she now lives on the North Shore of Lake Superior, where she is working on a magical realism novel.