During the 13 months Jeff endured while battling pancreatic cancer, we walked a one-mile path in our quiet mountain town every day, often twice, mostly hand in hand. In spring and summer, he would pluck a leaf from the hops vine climbing the banister at the end of our alley, hand it to me, and I’d chew it, a little ritual we both found silly and delightful.
On his good days, he would race me up High Street, always winning as I laughed too hard to run properly. And at a certain point in our loop, each time, I’d ask him questions meant to draw us even closer, to understand more deeply his experience and feelings.
I’d ask questions like, “Are you worried about anything?” He’d respond, “Not seeing clearly,” since his chemotherapy affected his sight. I’d ask, “Who would you like to speak at your memorial?” “Was I a good partner?” “Is it hard for you — all these tough questions?” He’d reply, “No, I’m happy to help.”
One afternoon, just as we were crossing the train tracks, I asked, “What would you like me to write in your obituary?”
“Just tell a story,” he answered, his usual brevity and faith evident. So, I did, and writing it felt like a project we shared. I didn’t want it to end, but, naturally, it did. Now, a year and a half later, I’m here to tell a new story.
There’s a part of me that wants to caution you about it — what I’m going to say might surprise or disturb you — and another part that wants to trust you with it, yet all of me feels the need to tell this story. Because isn’t love about sharing, and isn’t truth about telling?
In the ICU, as Jeff lay dying, his eyes faded from blue to an otherworldly black as he looked toward what lay beyond the hospital’s speckled ceiling. I’d watched him embrace the unknown for 30 years, always leaning his curious head into dark places — like French caves and empty basements.
In 1995, Jeff hurled himself down a speed-ski track in Vars, France, becoming the first to ski at 150 mph. He called it “drag racing on skis.” From 0 to 150 mph in just 16 seconds. But he loved acceleration even more than speed, appreciating every detail.
For his racing years, I’d stand at the track’s base, looking a kilometer up to where he folded himself into a tuck and launched. During races, I’d step ahead of everyone, no one in my periphery, to feel as close to him as possible.
Jeff had a love for the unknown. Growing up in Auburn, California, he’d explore caves for hours, emerging just feet from where he started. As a young man, he braved a lightning storm on Mount Whitney and leapt 700 feet from California’s tallest bridge at night, tied by bungee cords. In Europe, he skied naked at 100 mph alongside a friend just for fun and hopped fences to pet French goats. But as he became a husband and then a father, his thrill-seeking calmed; he wanted to be here for all the love.
Shortly before Jeff passed, we discussed the unknown over the kitchen table, me grappling with the “million unknowns” I’d face alone.
“The unknown is beautiful,” he said.
“It’s terrifying,” I replied.
His gentle heart and weakened voice replied, “The unknown is beautiful, Carolina.”
“You think that way because you trust things will work out. I fear they won’t,” I told him.
“I guess we’re both right,” he replied.
In the ICU, on his final morning, Jeff fought for every breath, as though each inhale was a conscious choice. In this final unknown, he strained his jaw for air, closing and opening it again. Each breath carried beauty, pain, and the love of his daughters, Eleanore and Frances, and me, the ones he was reluctant to leave.
In his last 16 hours, as through his life, we three held him close. There was no space between us. He was our strength, our being. I climbed into the bed, laying my head beneath his jaw, draping my arm over his chest. Eleanore held his right arm; Frances held his left hand. We told him stories. About a hidden Roman bridge where we felt the centuries pass beneath us. About jumping from rooftops into snow, learning joy from him.
We told him how lucky we were to hold his hand in all those moments. When Eleanore, terrified at her first soccer practice, had Jeff by her side, or the time Jeff held Frances’ and my hands as we floated above a manta ray’s wings in the ocean.
We reminded Jeff that if he ever let go of our hands, it would be to show us new paths, off-trail, down narrow streets, through ideas, and into community. And we spoke of his last year, the way he opened up, even at 55, as his life contracted. He’d “compete” with cancer, he’d said — not fight it.
Midway through Jeff’s illness, a sty formed under my right eye, red and heavy. I loved it, though; it showed my pain on the outside.
“Pain?” he asked.
“Yes, pain.”
One night, in unbearable pain, Jeff stood in the shower, water trying to ease his suffering. I lay on the bathroom tile, asking, “Are you afraid to die?”
“No. Dying’s the easy part. You’ve got the hard part,” he said.
He was there but also beyond, teaching me new ways to see and feel.
I knew when Jeff’s life ended. His final breath passed at 4 a.m. A nurse confirmed it, yet I already knew.
We spent the next hour tending to him, washing his arms and legs, dressing him, and following him through the snow to the mortuary. We left him there for cremation and waited a week for his ashes.
Jeff had asked our daughters to carry on. He said, “Mom’s strong; she’ll be fine.” And so, they kept their promise, one to London, the other to Nashville. I stayed.
I shoveled snow in Tahoe’s second-heaviest winter, handled deliveries from friends, and placed his ashes labeled “Jeffrey Hamilton” by our bed. I held it when I needed to feel him. I tried to hold him in my mind as he asked.
“Put me in your mind, Carolina. What you create there is powerful. Keep me there,” he’d said.
Because he didn’t believe in heaven, I couldn’t place him there. But he left open the possibility.
“Are you sure there’s nothing after life?” I asked once.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I don’t know anything.”
Another time, he said, “If there’s a place where I can miss you forever, that’s where I want to be.”
So, at night, when I miss him, I imagine him missing me too.
But memories lack weight. I long for his presence — his hand, his steady, playful legs. I remember him teaching our daughters to hold a catfish, then later a putter, and drive a tractor.
On Valentine’s Day, a month after he passed, I decided to transfer his ashes to the urn, a task that felt right as an inside joke between us.
I brought the ashes to the kitchen, opened the box, and tore the plastic bag, scared yet resolute. I wanted to be alone, just me and Jeff.
I reached into the ashes, like he’d reached into beaches with our daughters. I wanted to feel him again, so I moistened my fingertip, placed it in the ashes, then tasted him.
“My god,” I whispered, “you’re the ocean.”
I tasted again, feeling him as if his essence filled the ache inside me.
Jeff always valued truth, so here it is: I consumed him because I felt I had to. And as I did, the sorrow lessened. I was filled and whole.
For six months, I wrote daily to Jeff. It was my way of bridging the infinite distance between us.
I shared my first story of the ashes with close friends and family. They listened, they cried, and in their understanding, I felt supported.
Jeff’s death was 22 months ago, yet I keep him in my life. He showed me how to face grief.
Every morning, I reach for his side of the bed and whisper, “Good morning, Jeffrey,” as he once did.
One year after his death, I began taking daily self-portraits, unseen by anyone but me, showing the truth of widowhood.
Through my grief, I find ways to celebrate Jeff, stay strong, and support our daughters. I learn new things each day, from managing finances to planting his harvested seeds.
Sharing this story publicly requires courage, but Jeff taught me that. His words, “Tell a story,” still guide me. Telling these stories is how I grieve, how I live, and how I keep the hum of love alive.