Yes, that
death. That thing that comes at the end of life. That thing that causes a
person to stop breathing, to stop being alive, to end up buried in the ground
or turned into ashes. That thing that modern Americans, at least, barely talk
about, let alone think about.
If you’re
religious, maybe doesn’t feel quite so final. If you believe your dead loved
one is in heaven, still thinking about you and caring for you, in some ethereal
way, and that you will see each other again once you die yourself, perhaps
death doesn’t feel so final. So like a thick wall banging down between you and
the person you loved and lived with for 50+ years.
My husband,
Jack, died last year, on January 5. He had recently been diagnosed with multiple
myeloma, a blood cancer. He’d been in the hospital for a month, disabled for
the previous two years after a fall, in moderately ill health for the 16 years
before that from a clotting disorder and multiple complications. For years, he continued to say, “I can live with this.” On the last day of 2015, he said, “I
can’t live with this.” Hospice, then death.
Those are
the facts. But what do they mean? How do they feel? How do I accept the
finality of Jack’s being gone, forever? I have no religion, I don’t believe
there’s some nonmaterial existence where he might still be. I can only hold
onto the Jewish belief that dead people live on in the memories of those still
alive. But my memory is weak where my memories of Jack are.
I feel like
I wasn’t paying enough attention. It feels like I need his physical presence to
remember. I miss his body, his differentness, his unique thoughts and feelings.
I don’t miss the fights we had over my saving things – or maybe I do miss them.
In one of my few dreams about him, I was showing off the bookcases I’d emptied,
and he laughed because I’d waited until after he died to do that.
Why haven’t
I dreamed of him more? Why is he dying out of my dreams as well as my life? As
he lay dying, I told him, “From now on, your story will be my story. Is that
okay?” And he nodded. But it’s not okay.
I'm so sorry to hear about your husband. It sounds like he fought a very long and hard battle with cancer. I truly wish we had a cure for all cancers. :(
ReplyDeleteI think what you told him as he lay dying is so incredibly sweet. Given that he was such a major part of your life, I have no doubt, even as you feel he is dying out of your dreams and memories, that he will continue to live on through you. I'm of the opinion that every person who plays a major role in our lives changes us (usually for the better) and helps to make us the people we are. :)
With Love,
Mandy
Thank you, Mandy. It was hard, but he knew what he wanted his life to be like, and he could see it was never going to be that again. I think it was harder for me to let go than for him. And curiously, last night I did have a dream with him in it, and it made me think about his presence in a way I hadn't before. Writing is thinking, both conscious thinking and unconscious thinking.
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