AN ANNIVERSARY

Today marks the second anniversary of Norm’s death. Last night I lay thinking of that night two years ago when we surrounded his bed, hands joined, speaking to him of our love, singing to him, and bidding him goodbye. Those thoughts crowded out any hope of immediate sleep. Finally, though, I drifted off, hoping for a dream visit, but none came. This morning my heart lies heavy in my chest, my breathing is labored and uneven, and my eyes threaten to spill tears. Before breakfast I lit a memorial candle, which will burn for 24 hours, a flame to remind me of the passion we shared during our six decades together, a passion that was often a blessing, but, I must admit, was also occasionally a curse. Our relationship was complex and intense.

My sorrow seems greater now than it did a year ago. I am not sure why that should be. Perhaps then I was still immersed in the mental fog and fatigue that is characteristic of grief and only now am emerging into a full realization of my status as widow. As with most situations, this new role has both positive and negative aspects. The negatives are perhaps most obvious. I must make all household decisions, though I had to do that for many years before he died since his mental faculties had slowly slipped away, and I do not find those decisions difficult.

Of more consequence is that I do not have a companion for cultural and social events. Going to a museum or a movie or a concert is not nearly as much fun when done alone. I am blessed to have Laura and Dan with whom I share theater tickets, and am grateful to my neighbors the Zuckers with whom I go to productions of the St. Louis Opera Theater, but I probably would take advantage of more events if Norm were still alive. Now that I have said that, however, I am not sure it is correct. Norm was not really interested in art or music; he was a man of ideas and intellect. And that brings up another, deeper sorrow: I cannot truly remember what Norm was like. It breaks my heart to admit that, but it is true. He faded away over so many years—a full decade before his death—that I have lost any reliable memory of who that pre-Alzheimer’s person was. But whoever he was, I shared my entire adult life with him, and I miss him.

Though it seems appropriate to focus on loss, there are also gains that need to be acknowledged as a result of his passing. One great gift of this past year is that my granddaughter Rebecca moved in with me, something that probably would not have happened if Norm were still alive and at home. Though she travels a great deal, having her here at least some of the time fills this usually empty house with youthful enthusiasm and activity. I am grateful that this arrangement seems to suit both our needs at the moment.

Over the past two years I also have discovered new strengths and have returned to old interests. I have traveled widely—twice to Europe last year—and that is something Norm would not have enjoyed, whereas I loved sharing those adventures with my family. I found that my energy for walking and climbing far exceeded my expectations, a delightful discovery! I also have traveled within the U.S., visiting grandchildren and friends whenever the mood arose, the most recent trip being a spa vacation with granddaughter Jessica. Next month I shall visit grandson Nicholas in New York City where I shall be joined by all my other grandchildren (except for Rachel who has other commitments). These occasions fill my heart with joy, and being in the presence of these young people rejuvenates me, as if I have been given a shot of adrenaline.

I have returned to my love of singing, and am enjoying studying voice. I find time each day to sit down at the piano—mostly when I am in the house alone, for I still do not feel comfortable having others around—to belt out my favorite folk and gospel tunes. These times give me great pleasure, for they are a reminder of the days when I used to sing with my children.

So, my life is full in ways I could not have dreamed of when Norm died. I feel as if I am awakening, stretching, unfolding, emerging into a whole new stage of life as I grow further into my eighties. The past two years have been, in one strange sense, a liberation. Freed of my caregiving responsibilities, I have had the opportunity to explore new ways of being. I have been able to recognize, or develop, other roles, some of which might not have occurred to me earlier. I have lectured, I have written essays, and as a result I have a deeper sense of my own intellectual ability. No longer a wife, I am more secure in my separate identity. I have even opened my own page on Facebook.

There is one new role for which I am now most happily preparing—that of great-grandmother. My granddaughter Carolyn and her husband Raven are expecting a baby in early fall, and needless to say, we are all thrilled. As I have mentioned in my writings, I did not have a grandmother as I was growing up, and certainly not a great-grandmother, so once again I must invent how I am to live into this most awe-inspiring position. What a glorious challenge that will be! I hope to be around enough years to watch this child grow and develop as a fourth generation is added to our family.

So, today is a day of mixed emotions: sadness for what has been lost, pleasure for what has been gained, and great happiness for what is to be.