I still visit Hospice from time to time, and I don’t find it a depressing place to be. You have the feeling that Hospice is a place where people go to live rather than to die. I have heard much laughter and have seen so many good things during the time that my wife was there. My wife died of ovarian cancer in early 1988.

It was hard at first. I wondered how long I would feel like this, that the world is empty. It’s a part of your body, your entire life that is just cut off when you lose a loved one. It’s a feeling of desolation and loneliness. No one could have been more surprised than I to discover that going for a regular Saturday walk just might be the cure.

There is no way to describe what happens on those walks. It’s really a miracle. The structure is quite simple, and then something just happens in the process of walking and talking. It has everything to do with listening and caring.

It’s not a hike; it’s more like a stroll. People don’t really talk about their losses. We don’t go and cry on each other’s shoulders, but the group is supportive. There is something between us that most people do not understand. It’s very difficult to describe or to explain. The age difference, which in our group ranged from the 40s to the late 70s, doesn’t seem to matter in the least.

We have this common ground. It’s not depressing in the least; actually, it’s a jovial, uplifting, and strengthening association. Occasionally, people do break down. You might come across something your loved one carried in a purse or wallet or open a drawer, and something will trigger the pain of your loss. None of us will say, “Buck up,” or “get on with it.” We will just suffer with and for you.