I Was Devastated When The Love Of My Life Died. Then I Started Seeing Signs I Couldn't Explain.

The nurse stopped me before I left the intensive care unit and entered into the creeping hum of the hospital. My husband, Dave, had been wheeled off to the 14th floor, where he died a few hours later.

“You are going to want to take his wedding ring off… soon,” she said. I understood what she meant by “soon” — before he died and I could no longer get the ring off.

The last rays of sunlight filled Dave’s new room as I sat by his side. I squeezed some Aquaphor from a tube by his bed and, with his fingers in my hand, I tried to memorize the map of age spots before I gently tugged at the ring. It was a thick, smooth, dark silver wedding band, which he bought just a few weeks before our wedding. He stared straight ahead, his breathing labored through the oxygen mask covering his mouth. As I finally pulled the ring from his finger, he looked me in the eyes. I could feel him taking in the moment — the significance of what I had done — as I slipped it onto my right index finger.

A few days later, after the house cleared of visitors who had come to pay their respects and share their favorite stories about Dave, I heard a cricket chirping in the pantry. Later, it was in my bathroom, singing as I washed my face. This was before people began to ask me if I’d noticed any signs of Dave visiting me after his death.

I’d never heard a cricket in the house before — just a chorus of them outdoors on summer evenings. But I was dealing with so many unfamiliar experiences. I’d never had a front row seat to the devastation of cancer. I’d never seen a dead body before. I’d never lost someone so close to me. I’d never been a widow.

Dave and I had what I consider a traditional marriage. He worked, and I raised our boys. In the 17 years we were