After we were married, Joan found a job with the local newspaper, writing pieces on town events. They even gave her a column to write whatever caught her fancy. I was a councilor at a local family clinic, my dream job. That first year passed in utter bliss; it was over so quickly. Just after our anniversary Joan received a letter. The return address was from the Seattle Tribune, a real newspaper! We opened it together with reverence for the unknown contents. Joan made me read it to her. It said they had read her column and they loved it. They wanted her to write for them and move her column to Seattle. She couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this, and I gladly offered to go with her. But she wouldn’t hear of it; she said that I had my dream job helping families and I couldn’t leave that behind. She left at 10:35 on a Sunday morning. That was the last time I spoke with her.

Sometime around six o’ clock that night I received a call. It was the Seattle Medical Center; Joan had been in an accident. She was in serious condition but stable. I don’t remember driving there; it was a blur of panic and desperation. I made it to the hospital at midnight. My wife, god my wife, she didn’t even look familiar. She looked less like a human being and more like an apparatus. All the tubes coming n and out of her body, the steady beep of the heart machine. Her face was so swollen and bruised it was unrecognizable. But her hair was still the same. I stayed there in Seattle for weeks, but never did she wake. Her mind had disappeared.

I couldn’t practice anymore afterward because helping others seemed not to matter anymore. What was the point in even trying without her? She gave me all the hope and ambition I had. I now work as a file clerk in an office supply warehouse. It’s been over five years since then.

Joan died today. I thought I would feel better than this. I thought that this would be the moment of release, of freedom, but I feel like a part of me is gone. It was like I had woken up without a vital organ, empty inside. It’s a difficult feeling to describe. Jimmy talks sometimes about his missing arm, how it itches, or he’ll reach for something and nothing happens. It’s kind of like that, I guess. Sometimes I’ll wake from a dream and reach over for her, even after all this time. I can only hope my Phantom Wife Syndrome gets easier with time. Life is fucking ridiculous.