The call came late in the night, right after I had finally fallen asleep.

"Mr. Leidemann? This is the nursing station at Kaiser Moanalua. Your wife ..."

Oh God. Please no.

My wife had been diagnosed with terminal cancer on Christmas Eve, a few days before.

As the doctors and nurses struggled to find the right combination of medicines to make her comfortable, she suffered through 24 nightmarish hours so frightening that she had to be assigned round-the-clock attendant care.

The next day, she fell into a deep slumber that lasted all day and night.

Finally, after midnight, the hospital sent me home for a little rest, too. We'll call if there's any change, they said.

But I wasn't prepared for the call that woke me from own own fitful dreams.

Not now. Not yet. You know the moment will come, but you always want a little more time, a little more hope. There's always a little more to be said.

Then the phone rang. "Mr. Leidemann?"

I couldn't answer. My heart didn't stop, but my mind did. I just waited.

"Mr. Leidemann? This is the nursing station at Kaiser Moanalua. Your wife just woke up and she wants to talk to you."

Oh God!

So we talked. She wanted to know what had been happening, what the doctors were saying, why there was a nursing aide at her bedside who wouldn't go away, how her friends were doing, whether the cats were behaving, how I was holding up.

I don't know if I've ever had a more giddy conversation in my life.

I told her everything, every little detail about the last week that she couldn't remember. I told her about the friends who had been calling, the doctors who had been watching, the cats who had been waiting by the door.

Finally, when the talk ran out, we just listened to the silence on either end of the line for a long time.

I've never been the kind of man who has a hard time saying I love you. I had told my wife that a thousand times. No, make it 10,000 times. Maybe more.

In the silence in the middle of the night, there was no reason to say it one more time.

But I did.

"I love you," I said.

It's the mantra of married life.

"I love you, too," she said.

"OK. Good night. I'll see you in the morning.

My wife, Helen, died a few months later at the age of 52, leaving me alone with 30 years of married memory. And one unforgettable phone conversation in the middle of the night.

Reach Mike Leidemann at mleidemann@honoluluadvertiser.com.