Read Suzanne Somers' Husband Alan Hamel's Final Love Poem Before Her Death
Somers passed away on Sunday following a battle with breast cancer.
Suzanne Somers passed away on Sunday, just one day before what would have been her 77th birthday. The former Three's Company star had been battling breast cancer, which she was first diagnosed with in her 20s. Now, ET has published a sweet final love poem written to the actress by her husband Alan Hamel.
"Love I use it every day, sometimes several times a day," Hamel wrote in an Instagrm post. "I use it at the end of emails to my loving family. I even use it in emails to close friends. I use it when I'm leaving the house. There's love, then love you and I love you!! Therein lies some of the different ways we use love. Sometimes I feel obliged to use love, responding to someone who signed love in their email, when I'm uncomfortable using love but I use it anyway."
"I also use love to describe a great meal," he continued. "I use it to express how I feel about a show on Netflix. I often use love referring to my home, my cat Gloria, to things Gloria does, to the taste of a cantaloupe I grew in my garden. I love the taste of a freshly harvested organic royal jumbo Medjool date. I love biting a fig off the tree. I love watching two giant blackbirds who live nearby swooping by my window in a power dive. My daily life encompasses things and people I love and things and people I am indifferent to."
"I could go on ad infinitum, but you get it," Hamel's poem gos on to read. "What brand of love do I feel for my wife Suzanne? Can I find it in any of the above? A resounding no!!!! There is no version of the word that is applicable to Suzanne and I even use the word applicable advisedly. The closest version in words isn't even close. It's not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction. Unconditional love does not do it. I'll take a bullet for you doesn't do it. I weep when I think about my feelings for you. Feelings... that's getting close, but not all the way. 55 years together, 46 married and not even one hour apart for 42 of those years. Even that doesn't do it. Even going to bed at 6 o'clock and holding hands while we sleep doesn't do it."
"Staring at your beautiful face while you sleep doesn't do it," the poem concluded. "I'm back to feelings. There are no words. There are no actions. No promises. No declarations. Even the green shaded scholars of the Oxford University Press have spent 150 years and still have failed to come up with that one word. So I will call it, 'us', uniquely, magically, indescribably wonderful 'us.'"