Some call death a beautiful adventure; others, a necessary end. What is clear to me is that, for those left in death&8217;s wake, no amount of preparation can ease the pain of losing one&8217;s dearest love, best friend and life partner.

Even with more than a year to consider that the end of Tom Gandy&8217;s life might be imminent, hope remained steady &8212; through rehabilitation hospitals, therapy sessions and excellent care by medical friends &8212; that by some miracle my husband of 30 years might regain disabilities lost to a devastating stroke in November 2002.

By December 2003, hope for such a recovery began to wane, as he was diagnosed with pneumonia and, perhaps more significant, congestive heart failure. Death came only a few weeks later, spent at home with tender care given by family, sitters and the extraordinarily loving Hospice Ministries.

Two weeks ago, many friends and family members gathered at his gravesite to remember Tom and then at a celebratory reception at First Presbyterian Church, where he would have loved to hear all the stories being told about him and the lives he had touched.

Not that he was a braggart &8212; far from it. In fact, I could hear him saying, &8220;You mean all these people came here because of me?&8221; They did. And the outpouring of love and affection before and after that event has been overwhelming and humbling.

Now comes the difficult part for the loved ones he left behind. I speak for myself. Funeral flowers have faded; comforting food from friends, mostly consumed; family members, dispersed to their own abodes in other cities.

Memories lie scattered about me, many pieces of a mosaic that will be long in coalescing to form the whole I seek. A phrase here, an event there, a quick image of a smile or those eyebrows that could speak volumes &8212; they are only smatterings among hundreds of sounds and images that flip in and out of my mind.

Meeting a special friend brings unexpected tears, as do touching words written in a note or on a sympathy card. Friends have heard me say during the past year, &8220;I&8217;m fragile. Do not be too sweet to me.&8221; Ironically, learning to cope with loving gestures &8212; to appreciate them without succumbing to emotional backsliding &8212; is an important step in what many call the healing process.

I&8217;m not quite about that process yet, however. As one friend who lost a child to a tragic death said, &8220;First you just want to wallow in it.&8221; And I do. I want to be surrounded by his things. I want to imagine him in his favorite chair. I want to peruse the notebook where he wrote little reminders to himself.

I want to immerse myself in all that he was and all that he left behind. Someone offered to help me to begin cleaning house. Not now.

Going forward without him, I will remember the many times over the years he talked to me about how to handle this event when it came. His sage advice and loving counsel given then are a gift to open today and in the days ahead.

Furthermore, I know that my pain is not unique to me. Not only do I have friends who have lost dearest loves with whom they shared many years; but also I know there will be many other people whom I do not know who may read these words and recall how they worked through their grief.

And I know that, even if only for my own gratification, I will write volumes about the incredible man I love and the journey we made together. His fruitful life on earth has ended. The love, however, will not.

Joan Gandy

is community editor of The Democrat. She can be reached at 445-3549 or by e-mail at

joan.gandy@natchezdemocrat.com

.