Most people need to hear those "three little words" I love you. Once in a while, they hear them just in time.

    I met Connie the day she was admitted to the hospice1 ward, where I worked as a volunteer. Her husband, Bill, stood nervously nearby as she was transferred from the gurney2 to the hospital bed. Although Connie was in the final stages of her fight against cancer, she was alert and cheerful. We got her settled in. I finished marking her name on all the hospital supplies she would be using, then asked if she needed anything.

    "Oh, yes," she said, "would you please show me how to use the TV? I enjoy the soaps so much and I don't want to get behind on what's happening." Connie was a romantic. She loved soap operas, romance novels and movies with a good love story. As we became acquainted, she confided how frustrating it was to be married 32 years to a man who often called her "a silly woman."

    "Oh, I know Bill loves me," she said, "but he has never been one to say he loves me, or send cards to me." She sighed and looked out the window at the trees in the courtyard. "I'd give anything if he'd say ‘I love you,' but it's just not in his nature."

    Bill visited Connie every day. In the beginning, he sat next to the bed while she watched the soaps. Later, when she began sleeping more, he paced up and down the hallway outside her room. Soon, when she no longer watched television and had fewer waking moments, I began spending more of my volunteer time with Bill.

    He talked about having worked as a carpenter and how he liked to go fishing. He and Connie had no children, but they'd been enjoying retirement by traveling, until Connie got sick. Bill could not express his feelings about the fact that his wife was dying.

    One day, over coffee in the cafeteria, I got him on the subject of women and how we need romance in our lives; how we love to get sentimental1 cards and love letters.

    "Do you tell Connie you love her?" I asked (knowing his answer), and he looked at me as if I was crazy.

    "I don't have to," he said. "She knows I do!"

    "I'm sure she knows," I said, reaching over and touching his hands  rough, carpenter's hands that were gripping the cup as if it were the only thing he had to hang onto  "but she needs to hear it, Bill. She needs to hear what she has meant to you all these years. Please think about it."

    We walked back to Connie's room. Bill disappeared inside, and I left to visit another patient. Later, I saw Bill sitting by the bed. He was holding Connie's hand as she slept. The date was February 12.

    Two days later I walked down the hospice ward at noon. There stood Bill, leaning up against the wall in the hallway, staring at the floor. I already knew from the head nurse that Connie had died at 11 A.M..

    When Bill saw me, he allowed himself to come into my arms for a long time. His face was wet with tears and he was trembling. Finally, he leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath.

    "I have to say something," he said. "I have to say how good I feel about telling her." He stopped to blow his nose. "I thought a lot about what you said, and this morning I told her how much I loved her... and loved being married to her. You shoulda2 seen her smile!"

    I went into the room to say my own good?bye to Connie. There, on the bedside table, was a large Valentine card from Bill. You know, the sentimental kind that says, "To my wonderful wife... I love you." 

    大多數(shù)人需要聽(tīng)到那“三個(gè)小字”——我愛(ài)你。有時(shí)他們就會(huì)在最需要的時(shí)候聽(tīng)到。 

    我在康尼住進(jìn)收容所病房的那天見(jiàn)到了她。我在那兒當(dāng)義工。把她從輪床抬上病床時(shí)，她的丈夫比爾焦慮不安地站在旁邊。雖然康尼處于和癌癥搏斗的晚期，但她仍然神智清醒，精神愉快。我們把她安頓好。我在醫(yī)院提供給她使用的所有用品上標(biāo)上她的名字，然后問(wèn)她是否需要什么。

    “啊，是的，”她說(shuō)，“請(qǐng)告訴我怎么用電視好嗎？我非常喜歡肥皂劇，想隨時(shí)跟上進(jìn)展情況。”康尼是個(gè)浪漫的人。她酷愛(ài)肥皂劇、浪漫小說(shuō)和講述美好愛(ài)情故事的電影。隨著我們?cè)絹?lái)越熟，她向我吐露說(shuō)，跟一個(gè)經(jīng)常叫她“傻女人”的男人生活了32年有多么沮喪。

    “唉，我知道比爾愛(ài)我，”她說(shuō)道，“可是他從來(lái)不說(shuō)他愛(ài)我，也不給我寄賀卡。”她嘆了口氣，朝窗外庭院里的樹(shù)望去。“如果他說(shuō)聲‘我愛(ài)你’，我愿意付出一切，可這根本不是他的性格。”

    比爾每天都來(lái)探望康尼。一開(kāi)始，康尼看肥皂劇，他就坐在床旁。后來(lái)，她睡的時(shí)候多了，比爾就在屋外走廊里踱來(lái)踱去。不久，康尼不再看電視了，醒的時(shí)候也少了，我開(kāi)始花更多的義工時(shí)間和比爾在一起。

    他談到他一直是個(gè)木工，他多么喜歡釣魚(yú)。他和康尼沒(méi)有孩子，但他們四處旅游，享受著退休生活，直到康尼得病。對(duì)他妻子病危這一事實(shí)，比爾無(wú)法表達(dá)他的感受。

    一天，在自助餐廳喝咖啡時(shí)，我設(shè)法和比爾談起女人這個(gè)話(huà)題，談到生活中我們多么需要浪漫，多想收到充滿(mǎn)柔情蜜意的卡片和情書(shū)。

    “你跟康尼說(shuō)你愛(ài)她嗎？”我明知故問(wèn)。他瞧著我，就好像我有神經(jīng)病。

    “我沒(méi)有必要說(shuō)，”他說(shuō)道。“她知道我愛(ài)她！”

    “我肯定她知道，”我說(shuō)。我伸出手，觸摸著他那雙木工粗糙的手。這雙手緊握著杯子，似乎它是他需要依附的惟一東西——“可是她需要聽(tīng)到它，比爾。她需要聽(tīng)到所有這些年來(lái)她對(duì)你意味什么。請(qǐng)你考慮考慮。”

    我們走回康尼的房間。比爾進(jìn)了屋，我走開(kāi)去看望另一個(gè)病人。后來(lái)，我看見(jiàn)比爾坐在床邊。康尼入睡了，他握著她的一只手。那天是2月12日。

    兩天后的中午時(shí)分，我順著收容所病房過(guò)道向前走著。比爾站在那里，靠著墻，凝視著地面。護(hù)士長(zhǎng)已經(jīng)告訴我，康尼在上午11點(diǎn)故去了。

    比爾看見(jiàn)我后，讓我擁抱了他許久。他滿(mǎn)臉淚水，渾身顫抖。最后，他向后靠在墻上，深深地吸了一口氣。

    “我有話(huà)非說(shuō)不可，”他說(shuō)道。“我得說(shuō)，對(duì)她說(shuō)出來(lái)，感覺(jué)真是好極了。”他停下來(lái)擤鼻子。“你說(shuō)的話(huà)我想了很多；今天早上我對(duì)她說(shuō)我多么愛(ài)她……我多么珍惜和她結(jié)為夫妻。你真該看看她的笑容！”

    我走進(jìn)康尼的房間，親自去和她告別 。我看見(jiàn)，床頭桌上放著一張比爾給她的大大的情人節(jié)賀卡——就是那種充滿(mǎn)柔情蜜意的賀卡，上面寫(xiě)著：“給我出色的妻子……我愛(ài)你。”