I remembered to take the trash out to the curb this evening. While doing so, I could not help but think about the last time I did so, struggling through the snow and ending up in the emergency room.

It is a strange sensation not being able to breathe. The air tonight was cold and my chest began to tighten even before I made the five trips from the backyard to the curb to fetch the recycling, the trash bin, and the three large bags of leaves I gathered on Saturday.

By the second trip, I began wheezing. By the fourth, I wondered if the nebulizer would be sufficient to my needs once I finished, sufficient to dispel the feeling that an elephant was sitting on my chest intent on keeping me from drawing a decent breath.

Thankfully, it was.

While breathing the chemical mist, I kept thinking about my grandfather. Here is a man who would always be willing to take out the trash for his wife. Oh, were it so that I should find someone with whom to share this life...and to love me as he does her.

Now, it appears that his wife is dying. She moved beyond this world a few years ago due to the ravages of Alzheimer's, but her body remained when her mind did not. I suppose her body is simply tired of carrying on alone.

Week after week, year after year, my grandfather has cared for her. First in his home and then finally, reluctantly, during his visits to her at the nursing home. He combs her hair, cleans her face and hands, and feeds her, all the while talking to her and touching her with such gentleness.

Such grief and loss my grandfather bears with grace. He has faced the loss of the love of his life over and over again for so long now. But even knowing her suffering will finally come to an end does not lessen that grief, that loss. How does he let go of a woman he has loved for over sixty years?

I marvel at his love. I ache for his loss. I grieve with him.

I am weary of death.