THE ELEPHANT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM

Months after Arthur's death, the Centers for Disease Control told me it had been unable to identify the virus that killed him. The infectious-pathogen specialist reassured me that specimens are kept for a very long time, and when another "mystery" virus comes in they'll compare the samples to see if they can form a new identity. So Arthur "lives" on at the CDC, too. Little bits of him are scattered all over: Los Angeles, Atlanta, my closet.

The day he died, I hopped on a plane to rush home from a business trip after getting news of his sudden hospital admission. The last message from him on my cell phone was "Hi, Pooh. We're having a little medical adventure, but don't worry. I'll be fine." He died while I was in the air.

I went straight to the hospital morgue. It was still Arthur in there. Very cold to the touch of my lips, but still my Arthur. He looked peaceful, even with the tubes.

As our sad little entourage (my sister, my niece and I) drove out of the hospital parking lot, we were too shocked and exhausted to speak. Suddenly, in the midst of the quiet winter night, we heard a man's voice. "It's a girl!" he yelled into his cell phone. At first it felt like a kick to the head, but the caller was so completely joyous that we spontaneously offered our congratulations as we drove by. He beamed. Strangely enough, it felt good and just. One out, one in. All in the same day. Arthur, who never seemed to fear death ("It's all part of the process," he used to say), would have appreciated it.

Nearly a year later, I think I may have moved from numbness and denial into acceptance. Actually, I preferred denial. Hope lives there. With acceptance, as the saying goes, what you see is what you get. So, lately, while I'm still shifting, I'm not heading south every moment of every day. Now it's more like the proposed title of a friend's memoir: "Onwards and Sideways."

SNYDER, AN ACTRESS, LIVES IN NEW YORK CITY.

© 2005