This was the  last series of photographs I ever took of my wife Helen.  After a full night of surveillance outside her new boyfriend's apartment, Helen can be seen emerging from the passenger's side of his car in front of her office and classroom  building at an East Coast Canadian University where this young Psychology Assistant Professor had just achieved tenure track status.
	I had just contracted for a new Issuzu Trooper after obtaining her agreement on vehicle choice etc. and had driven up to her office to pick her up.  Her office was closed and locked.  I waited outside in the new car.  I next saw her secretary approaching the parking lot and she asked if I had come to pick up Helen.  I said that I had stopped by, but she wasn't in her office.  Still looking down at her shoes, she asked me if I was going to wait.  An odd question.
	I told her, no, I would just go home and wait for her to call.   Her students tended to gather around after classes and talk.  No big deal.
	The phone call had finally been made.  "Boy if I have to correct one more paper...", said the familiar voice on the other end. "Helen, you haven't been marking papers." and there was a long pause before a sigh. "How long have you known?" "Helen.  We've got to Talk."
	But it was too late.  The lady just "...fell in love", and after all what is a poor psychologist supposed to do?  He too just couldn't help another affair of the heart.  Between them they had six degrees and once tenured, a force to be reckoned with.
	The only  fly in the ointment was that the six foot four plus new Mr. Wonderful, among other things, couldn't drive very well.  Several weeks before taking Helen home to meet his mama in Antiginish, he totaled a late model Japanese compact coming out of Montreal.  Helen and Prince Charming bought a new compact together and never quite made it  past a pot whole in an East Coast highway.

    After a five week coma in the Halifax Neural Intensive Care Unit, she awoke with the impression that her parents had never come to visit her and that she was ostracized by the family.  It was reported that once again she was isolated from all support givers and was eventually convinced that the Halifax crew who had saved her life didn't know what they were  doing.  Even with a 30% loss in intelligence she would be better off in her wheelchair at home, in their ninth story apartment just one province away.

    Close to the anniversary date of the accident, isolated from almost everyone she knew, Helen's healthcare worker left for the day leaving her by herself.  According to her dad, she is thought to have gotten outside on the balcony and over the safety rail on her own, with help, or accidentally.   One explanation was that she liked to sit out and look at the river.  It was winter, and I wonder if she had a coat on and if so who put it on?  If she had no coat, it wasn't an accident.  He was elsewhere, and no one asked if he paid to have it done.  

    I was invited by her family to attend her funeral, he was not.  You can't pluck a flower from it's roots and expect it to survive.  She wanted her ashes spread along Jones's Beach.  I was driving home during the cremation process and I've never been told if they ever got there.

    Wives come and go, and you can always find a lover on the streets for $75.00, but she was my friend.  And even after 15 years,  I still miss her.

The Good Times

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Last Updated 29/04/2000 16:53:53 -0230