There were violets, because that's what he picked for her every spring. A granddaughter sang "Ave Maria" and "The Old Rugged Cross." Then guests enjoyed an ice cream social, featuring vanilla (her favorite) with sprinkles on top.

Sunday's memorial service in Wayzata for Gladys Lamberger, 90, and August (Augie) Lamberger, 92, was a fitting send-off to a patriarch and matriarch whose home, and kitchen, remained open to their six children, nine grandchildren, 13 great-grandchildren, neighbors and countless friends.

And it laid to rest any doubt that humans can, and do, die of a broken heart.

The Lambergers died in January, 19 days apart. They had been married two months shy of 70 years. Their obituary last week caught my eye, as it featured both of them in a single announcement. Call me weird, morbid even, but I keep a file on couples like the Lambergers, and that's because I prefer to call myself a romantic.

How can you not love a story like this?

This year, two of my friends lost long-married parents within months of each other, the survivors barely coming up for air before plunging into the depths of grief again. When I was a kid, my paternal grandmother, a tiny Russian emigrant who assembled poppies for the Veterans of Foreign Wars and kept a carp in her bathtub on Fridays, dropped dead on the streets of Paterson, N.J., six months after my grandfather died. People said she had a heart attack. I had a different hunch, even then.

Star Tribune, Star Tribune
Gladys and August Lamberger died less than three weeks apart. Could it have been “stress cardiomyopathy”?

And while I prefer not to let facts get in the way of my strongest hunches, I was happy to discover that science actually is on my side this time.

A few years ago, Dr. Ilan Wittstein, a cardiologist at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, published research in the New England Journal of Medicine on something called "stress cardiomyopathy." The user-friendly term is "broken-heart syndrome," and Wittstein wrote that its symptoms (sudden chest pain, shortness of breath), while similar to a typical heart attack, are very different.

Sudden, overwhelming stress, Wittstein discovered, can lead to a days-long surge in adrenaline and other stress hormones that "stun" the heart temporarily. Or not temporarily.

Augie met Gladys when they were teenagers romping around Lake Nokomis. "From the day he saw her, he decided that she was going to be his lady for the rest of his life," said Judith Ann Hagen, 67, of Ramsey, one of the couple's daughters. Gladys needed more persuading. She was beautiful and joyful and had "a lot of boyfriends," Hagen said. "He pursued her for years before she gave in."

After marriage, she stayed on the home front. He made artificial limbs during World War II, then worked with Frederic Foley in developing the Foley catheter, which became a widely used medical device.

"Not every day was wonderful," Hagen said. "They had their ups and downs, but her purpose in life was to make him feel like a more confident, worthy person, and his purpose in life was to provide for her and their children. They were real people, helpers, inclusive of all, always thinking, 'What can we do to make this world a better place?'"

Last October Augie fell, lying on the bedroom floor all night so as to not disturb anyone. The next day he was taken to a hospital, then to a nursing home to regain his strength. On Dec. 9, his 92nd birthday, Gladys talked to him by phone, then worried her kids when she told them: "I just don't like the world today."

"It was very out of character for her," said daughter Lora Girard, 59, of Eden Prairie. "Her glass is always half full." The following Monday, Gladys had a heart attack. After being released from the hospital, she joined Augie in a room at the nursing home. That first night was fitful, Girard said. So Gladys crawled into Augie's bed. He put his arms around her "and she slept."

The next morning, all heck broke loose because sleeping in the same bed "was against all state regulations," Girard said. Wisely, the staff compromised and allowed the Lambergers to push two hospital beds together. "Dad figured out a way to get his leg through the bars," Girard said with a laugh, "and she was very much at peace."

She promised him that she'd make it through Christmas and New Year's. On Jan. 2, she woke up, asked Girard what year it was, then fell back to sleep. The next morning, she was gone. Augie started to refuse food and water. He died Jan. 22.

Hagen, too, believes that people can die of a broken heart. "I don't think it's silly at all," she said. "Everybody said they just couldn't live without each other. There was no purpose in his life when she died. Once she was gone, he said, 'I've got to go.'"

Gail Rosenblum • 612-673-7350 • gail.rosenblum@startribune.com