This story first appeared in CityView Magazine’s “The Love Issue” February 2026 edition.
My husband and I have been together for a long time. As a married couple, almost 18 years. And if we count the years we spent dating as high school sweethearts, 26 years, which is more than half of both of our lives. When you coexist with someone for so many years, you tend to hit a familiar stride. You may find that you begin to anticipate each other’s needs, predict their moods, know what they are about to say next, or maybe even be willing to share a toothbrush in a pinch.
While I can only speak for myself, I imagine (and hope) that my husband would tend to agree that when you’ve been with someone as long as we have, it’s difficult to imagine what life would be like without what romantics like to call our “other half.” It goes without saying that the loss of your life partner would involve a massive emotional upheaval, but would also entail the inevitable logistical nightmare that tends to happen when 50% of a pair ceases to exist.
Although when we say our wedding vows, we promise to love each other “‘til death do us part,” of course no one wants to think too hard about existing in the eternal absence of their beloved, especially not this time of year when everything is supposed to be hearts, cupids, and boxes of chocolates, but it’s something that every semi-responsible family unit surely needs to plan for. Coincidentally, my husband and I both lost our mothers unexpectedly at young ages, and I’m sure that navigating this experience with my family contributed to my tendency to think a little too much about the “what ifs.”
After my husband and I started our own family, we invested in life insurance policies. We met with an attorney and drew up all the legal documents necessary to ensure that our children would be taken care of and our affairs would be in order in the event that something catastrophic happened to one or both of us. We have had conversations with one another about our end-of-life wishes. While my eternally optimistic, glass-half-full-minded husband tends to not like to put a whole lot of thought into these matters—oftentimes making those conversations a little one-sided—I, on the other hand, have instructed him in great detail on the arrangements I have already made for myself in the event that my time comes before his.
For example, I’ve directed him that under absolutely no circumstances should he allow a funeral home cosmetologist to make me up beyond recognition, and that, as a matter of fact, I should probably be buried exactly as everyone would remember me, in my favorite baggy gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, with a messy topknot and no makeup aside from a couple dabs of whatever brand of foundation is on sale at the Walgreens and a quick swipe of cherry ChapStick. He knows that I’d like a bluegrass band to play at my funeral, which will not really be a funeral at all, rather, a big outdoor party catered by Parker’s Barbecue, with an iced coffee fountain, a massive carrot cake, unlimited dirty martinis, and some sort of costume theme for the guests that my kids can choose.
On a recent road trip during which my husband and I had a 2-hour stretch of car time without our two usual backseat passengers, I took this rare opportunity to announce to him the good news that, in my further planning, I had picked out the person he should immediately pursue if something should happen to me. As we both ate lunch out of brown paper McDonald’s bags, I rationalized why this particular person would be the perfect match for him. I explained that he had my full permission to immediately move this process along after about 7 to 10 business days of appropriate mourning, because No. 1: I cannot bear the thought of him being lonely. And No. 2: I cannot bear the thought of my children existing on a rotation of Eggo waffles, easy mac, and frozen chicken nuggets, and I happen to know that this person has a convenient penchant for cooking nutritious food.
As my husband drove down Interstate 95, he shook his head and chuckled while I rambled on between bites of Quarter Pounder and french fries about how he and this person shared mutual interests and would make a cute couple. Suddenly, a bit of one of my fries became quite lodged in my throat. While I pounded on my chest and frantically tried to wash the blockage down with swigs of Diet Coke, I began to have visions (maybe because of the onset of lack of oxygen to my brain) of the person that I was mere seconds ago trying to betroth to my husband moving into my home and keeping it much tidier than I ever could. Putting my family’s laundry away the same day she folds it. Alphabetizing my spices. Filling my bathroom drawers with dermatologist-endorsed cosmetics from somewhere fancier than Walgreens. Lining my closet shelves with Size 4 lululemon leggings and matching tank tops. Discovering my hidden stash of Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes in the high cabinet behind the cereal boxes. And worst of all, having the restraint to throw them out instead of housing two of them back-to-back like the lady who came before her would have.
I looked over wide-eyed at my husband and imagined that the person beside him was not me, his middle-aged wife, currently fighting for her life against a mouthful of fast food, but a younger, fitter partner who would probably have packed her own banana, protein bar, and vitaminwater.
“I’m choking! I don’t think I’m breathing!” I proclaimed.
“Babe, first of all, calm down,” he said. “Since you’re talking, you’re probably breathing. Do you need me to pull over?”
And then with one final whack of my palm to my sternum and an extra big swallow of soda, the offending french fry finally became dislodged.
Once I realized I was back to breathing normally and was not going to meet my maker by way of choking on McDonald’s on the side of the highway, I looked at my husband and said, “Forget everything I just said. I’m not going anywhere. At least not right now.”
I sure hope that my husband and I have many more Valentine’s Days together. Many more years of happiness. I think we’ve planned all that we really need to, and maybe I’ll adopt his philosophy of a lot less worrying about the “what ifs.”
And when my time does come, you all are invited to the party. I hope that you like iced coffee and carrot cake.
