Bob CollinsAuthor Amy Krouse Rosenthal has died, a little more than a week after she tried to find a new spouse for her husband.
She had cancer. She was just 51.
A week ago she authored a gut-wrenching piece in the New York Times. She was married to her husband for 26 years, and she wanted to be married to him for another 26, but cancer takes no prisoners.
“So many plans instantly went poof,” she wrote of learning she had ovarian cancer.
Her essay was a love letter to her partner.
Here is the kind of man Jason is: He showed up at our first pregnancy ultrasound with flowers. This is a man who, because he is always up early, surprises me every Sunday morning by making some kind of oddball smiley face out of items near the coffeepot: a spoon, a mug, a banana.
This is a man who emerges from the minimart or gas station and says, “Give me your palm.” And, voilà, a colorful gumball appears. (He knows I love all the flavors but white.)
My guess is you know enough about him now. So let’s swipe right.
Wait. Did I mention that he is incredibly handsome? I’m going to miss looking at that face of his.
If he sounds like a prince and our relationship seems like a fairy tale, it’s not too far off, except for all of the regular stuff that comes from two and a half decades of playing house together. And the part about me getting cancer. Blech.
“I am wrapping this up on Valentine’s Day, and the most genuine, non-vase-oriented gift I can hope for is that the right person reads this, finds Jason, and another love story begins,” she wrote.
In one of her final public appearances, she tossed messages in bottles into the ocean.
