Tony Snow's death packed a particularly hard punch to my gut this week. Because during the past year, Tony had been warmly and graciously corresponding with my precious wife Denise, who had also been battling cancer. When Tony found out about her diagnosis, he asked for her email address so they could exchange words of inspiration and advice.

They did. And she relished every word. Here was my wife, a frustratingly liberal-leaning woman and wife of a conservative radio host, sharing a bond with a fellow cancer fighter, one of the giants of conservatism. It was proof that a life-threatening disease is the great equalizer, a reminder that there are more important things than Democrats and Republicans. Denise loved Tony. She admired his faith, his optimism, and his "live-for-the-moment" approach to life.

I imagine right about now, they are arguing politics face-to-face. Because my beloved died almost two weeks ago.

It's awkward to tell others that your spouse has died. Everyone becomes so sad and sorry, and you just hate like heck to have to break the news to someone who hasn't heard the news. It's as if you just know that you're about to cast a pall over someone and you wish there was a way around it.

I suppose that's why I've taken so long to write this column. When I first wrote about my wife Denise's diagnosis of endometrial cancer last year, I guess I brought you into my family's fight whether you liked it or not. And now that she's gone, I feel somewhat obligated to finish the story.

Sharing bad news with strangers is most certainly a selfish act. Over the last year, I've noticed that a sense of comfort occurs from opening up to others. Since I'm a professional communicator, I think I instinctively cling to doing what I do best, even in times of crisis and turmoil. And I have been inspired and uplifted by the goodness of others.

I watched Chris Wallace's amazing tribute to Tony this week on "Fox News Sunday." On tape, Tony often spoke about what a gift it was for him to receive the love and support of thousands, millions of strangers. I, too, have taken great solace in the kindness my family and I have been receiving during this difficult time.

So please forgive me for opening up to you about saying good-bye to the love of my life, my Denise, my sweet, precious, funny, big-hearted best friend. But I think it might make me feel a little better to be able to tell you about this amazing, wonderful lady.

Denise died at 7:12 in the morning on June 29, 2008. She was where she wanted to be, in our bedroom, surrounded by the husband and four sons who adored her. A hospice nurse, an angel if there ever was one, sat quietly nearby. It's a dumb phrase right out of the movies, but she died in my arms, our son Matt holding her hand.

She died the day before her 52nd birthday.

It all happened fairly quickly. During the final six weeks, she just kept getting progressively more fatigued. We thought (tried to convince ourselves?) that it was just the chemo and radiation she was receiving. She would bounce back, we kept insisting. It would get better.

But of course, it didn't. We finally accepted that she was, indeed, dying.

That realization, along with the terrifying stage four cancer diagnosis a year earlier, was a peculiar gift to us. Many couples never have a chance to say good-bye. I think of someone like Tim Russert who went to work one day, his family never knowing it would be for the final time.

As preferable a way as that might be to die, it has to be absolutely agonizing for the family and friends. My heart goes out to those who just don't know it's about to happen.

For Denise and me, this last year was a time to live. Funny, but that's how she always lived her life. She was constantly scolding me for worrying too much about the future, for sweating the small stuff.

After the doctor gave us the horrible news last year, I knew our lives were changed forever.

But in many ways, the past year was the best time we ever had together. We laughed. We traveled. We reveled in family and friends.

I learned to do what Denise had been doing all along: I lived.

When your spouse is given a bleak prognosis, you become an expert in soaking up every moment of every day. During this last year, I memorized every inch of her face. I soaked in her throaty laugh (boy, I loved that laugh). We rarely disagreed about anything. After all, when you both know that cancer is all through your wife's body, does it really matter if someone forgot to put away the ice cream? Continued...