Just over 20 years ago, I lost my wife to breast cancer. We had two small children. We had just over four year’s notice.
I thought I was prepared to face this — I was wrong. These short pieces are about an ending that was also the beginning of everything that I am now. This is where I started writing about things that matter.
This was my crucible — this is my beginning.
John
The Six Stones
Lying discarded on the nightstand next to her bed, there were five smooth white stones, left over from some aromatherapy massage miracle treatment, and one clear, acrylic stone with Raphael, the Archangel of Healing, embedded in it.
Her breath was very labored now, her lungs filling minute by minute with fluid too deep to be suctioned, gurgling like bong-water without the smoke, the oxygen tube puffing air in her nose barely keeping her skin pink. The end of this four year battle to stay alive, and alert, to be mother, wife, daughter, sister, and friend, was near, so very near, that there was now a hush in the room, and people’s eyes started with tears at the instinctual recognition of Death’s presence.
Our son, barely five years old, who had without fail, tossed as many coins in every fountain as I would let him, who never failed once, to say a prayer for his mother’s healing at every meal, and before bed, was lying next to her, peacefully holding her hand. Every few minutes he would rise up, and as he had done for months, anoint her head with Holy Water and a kiss from his small lips.
No tears for him, he knew that tears would only make her more worried, and he did not want to cause her any worry at all.
“Mike, it’s time to go to bed boy, kiss your momma goodnight” I said, choking back my own tears, truly believing this to be his last kiss on her living lips…
Instead of the perfunctory kiss and ‘Night mom, see ya tomorrow!’ that was, for the last five months of her steadily declining bedridden state, a steady routine, he did something differently…
I watched in silence as he picked up the five white stones, and took the first of them, and kissed it, and said, “Mom, this is so your bones get better,” and he placed it on her laboring ribs.
His lips kissed the second stone, and the words he spoke put a cold steel band around my chest, “Mom, this one is so you will be able to use your hands again,” and placing it in her right hand, he curled her fingers around it.
The third, he kissed and said, “This is so your stomach won't be sick, and you can eat again and get strong,” and placed it on her cancer bloated stomach.
The fourth was kissed and placed on her forehead. I heard a soft “Mom, this is so the cancer will leave your brain, so you can talk to me again.”
The fifth stone, he kissed, paused and said “This wish is for your heart, so you will always love me like you do,” and placed it on her laboring chest.
And then, thinking he was finished, I reached for him to hug away my pain and the pain that I knew was coming to him so soon. But he pushed me away and picked up the sixth piece, the acrylic stone with Raphael embedded in it, kissed it, placed it in her left hand, curled her fingers around it and said “Mom, this is so if you die, the angels will take you to heaven to wait for me.”
He climbed into the small bed we had pulled next to her hospital bed, and with a small child’s faith in wishes made, trusting in an indifferent god, and with his hand touching her arm, he fell asleep.
She passed at 8:16 the next morning.
This is how I found Love, and my life, unlooked for, unexpected, but oh so appreciated.
Of Beginnings, and of Endings
Twelve years ago, I was on a road trip for my job, to Hawaii, a place I had been to so often that the inside of the hotel room and my stack of books was far more attractive than the nightlife, even with the company of the half-dozen of my friends. I was convinced to accompany one of them,to a bar, supposedly to lend moral support while he attempted to convince a certain lady of his charms.
While sitting, unoccupied other than half-listening to some very bad karaoke and reading my book,I caught sight of them by the back entrance, far across the bar. A redheaded woman and a man in casual clothes, looking for all the world like beach bums. She proceeded up to the stage, and the man sat himself two seats from me.
The woman sang like an angel. The song was 'Crazy' by Patsy Cline — I was entranced.
When she finished, she sat next to her date, but was next to me as well. We casually exchanged words. And then, to our amazement, four hours passed! Her date, forgotten and unnoticed by us, had left. We continued the conversation with a walk on the Waikiki sand and moonlight. As if in a dream, nine days passed, and then, I returned home and found that there was just no joy in the life I had built. I took two weeks' vacation and went back to her.
Another empty month passed, then she took two and came back to me.
There were no thoughts of a Great Romance, no trumpets, no angels singing in the heavens, no doves descended, but there was also no question of our being apart.
We moved her things in on July 26, 1994. Our first child, a daughter, was born the next year in June, and we married in September. Our son was born five years later. While nursing him, she had a breast lump misdiagnosed as a benign impacted lactating gland.
For almost a year, we went on, the four of us. Love unlooked for, Love that was hard, and easy, terrible in the sense of Norse Gods and Ragnarok, and as loving and tender as Adam and Eve before the serpent. Love that was all that it should be.
Then the hidden spread of the cancer grew to a point where we knew there was something very wrong — and surgery showed that indeed, it was Stage IV or V already, and was on bone, liver and lung.
She fought, lived, and loved for almost four more years. Then, while we were at our Valentine’s Day Dinner, just this past February, after the food, the loving touches, and the pearls she loved so well, she said, “John, I have to go to the bathroom.” I, of course, said, “OK. Hun, I’ll be here…” she said,
“No John, I can’t feel my legs, and my feet won’t move. And I really have to go — right now.”
So I carried her to the restroom, and then cried while she was behind the stall door, knowing that it had spread, finally, inevitably, to the interior of her spinal cord, inside the blood/brain barrier, and now, she had only weeks.
She lived until just this past June 16th. Leaving behind an eleven year old daughter, Olivia, and a five year old son, Michael, and me, or rather, half of me, for she took her half of me with her.
She died well — as she lived, with life, and love on her lips and her heart bigger than a human should have.
Over thirty families and friends came daily for the last months of her life.
Over one hundred friends and co-workers came to give comfort and love.
Today, it is 6:01AM, and I am still without her.
Her name was Barbara-Ann, and I always will be without her.
The Last Candle Lit
On the day of our wedding, to symbolize our binding, two into one, we brought three candles, one large one, and two smaller tapers. And at the end of the wedding, after all had been said, the tapers were lit, and two flames came together to ignite the larger one; one from two.
This tradition was continued for every anniversary, all nine of them. After the dinner, after the babysitter was sent home, and after the children were abed, we would stand by the mantle, each with our lit candle, and light the larger one.
Some years, it was done lovingly, with words and touches, some years it seemed to be out of habit, the seemingly important then, but oh so insignificant now, anger between us set aside for this moment.
When I was away from home, on business, you came to me, and brought with you the candles, and we lit them there in the hotel rooms. But it was always done. We would leave it burning until morning.
Last year, I had to hold you up, as your legs did not work well, but we stood and lit our flame once again. This was our moment — our way of saying, this, another year of us, has begun. We did not know, then, that there wasn’t to be a year or that it was to be our last.
This year, last night, the children abed, I placed the candle on the mantle, the smaller ones held in my hands.
I lit them both. But there is no one there this year to take yours from my hand.
I stood in candlelit misery, unsure of myself; do I use them both to light the one? Me, taking your place here, in memory of the bond? Adding your light one last time to mine?
Do I light with just mine, to show my side of the bond is as yet unbroken? Or at the least, mourned, showing that I still consider this our last anniversary?
This is one ceremony that, after this year, I know I will never do again. I stand mute. The pit in my heart is empty now, and the tears I thought were gone, flowing once again. I do not know what to do.
Then, a large teardrop wells and falls from my eye, and the flame on your candle is struck, and sputtering, goes out.
I light our candle with mine, knowing your answer has been given. I can almost hear you speak the words...
“Til Death do Us Part.”
I let the candle burn to morning, as we always did, and when I blew it out, just now, it is but a candle, alone on the mantle, to be put away lovingly in a box, with a few other things that were ours.
But now, are just mine.
She Came In My Dreams Again
Hey! I haven’t seen you in months! Yes dear, I know you’re very busy, but time isn’t for you anymore, so there are no worries here about that dear. You should see the children, you would be so proud! You have? You are? Ah! That’s good you know then, I didn’t know you watched them. You’re right, of course; I should have thought you would. Yes, sometimes I wish that I could take their grief from them too, but they need it dear, it’s part of healing. Mine serves me well.
No, I know it’s not gone. I don’t think it ever really will be. How could it?
Me? You came to talk to me? Why? Oh, yes dear, I know, but it is necessary that I be here. No, I don’t know why I haven’t learned that one yet. No, I probably won’t for a while. Love? Yes dear, there is always love, but you know that too. I lack none. Yes, dear, it is very, very lonely. Sometimes, it is unbearable. Oh, I didn’t know that’s what brought you back here. Thank you for that. It’s actually nicer than anything you ever did while we were married. I know you changed Barbara, I am sorry for not believing it sooner, but I couldn’t. No, I appreciate you coming, but still, your time here is done, my dear, I’ve let you go. I won't be lonely forever, no, I have a dream, you know, a grand one, and dreams sometimes come true. Yes, she is. Very. I don’t know. Maybe, perhaps I will know love again, and you’ll not need to come any longer at my tears. I might just be surprised, and meet her. Who knows?
I know you love me dear, I love you too. There is no lack of love, there is no need for there to be, it never diminishes, you taught me that, your dying taught me that.
No, I didn’t think you were Jacob Marley you goof, get on, let me have my sleep, I have to get up and work, and then the kids are home early, and we have gifts to wrap, and…
Be well, Barbara, and Merry Christmas, tell Him Happy Birthday from me.
Merry Christmas.
Light She Is...
I remember carrying her
when she could no longer walk,
at first heavy, then feather light.
The burden of responsibility
is no burden at all,
when it's repaid with trust.
There was no thought of sex.
For years, there was too much pain,
her bones, too brittle for such play.
But once sublimated, friendship grew,
slower than vines growing on a brick wall,
years of mortar crumbling under finger-roots.
I carried her many times a day,
even at just her need to see a change in view.
I found that moving her, moved us both.
Hands that once visited such violence
became gentle as they gripped,
the same man they once struck.
The eyes once haunted by fear
became windows to a place
of peace and heaven's light.
Yes, light she is and light she was
as I bathed her one last time,
then zipped her into that vinyl bag.
A Glance Askance
Months later, I watch as people look askance
How can I be, the normal they expect
When they won’t even look me in the eye
There are no more invitations to things
All the things mothers do are left undone
They don’t ask me, but I need Tupperware too.
No longer do we go to barbecues, parties into the night
Neighbors love us, but still, they shun
Not knowing they do us double harm
Even at church, the glances are there
Looking at us, whose loss they can not face
I feel guilty forcing them to see her in our pew.
We see her every day, if only by the hole in our world
It closes so very slowly, it seems at times
Then we forget it’s there, until they show it to us again
The children walk through halls of whispers
“There’s those poor kids” is heard time and again
How do they hold their heads so very high?
What did they do when the other children
Made Christmas presents for their Mom?
I talk, but teachers never hear, or they forget.
Some are just unfeeling; at his insistence
My daughter’s timeline of her summer vacation
Included the cremation and the ashes spread
When I talked to him, he spoke of accuracy
And of events big and small, and including those.
The security guard stopped me from hitting him twice.
I have one friend who doesn’t shove
Our faces into her ashes in word or deed
Sometimes, her husband lets her come visit.
In truth, we aren’t unsociable at all
We just go where no one knew her, knows us,
So that for a few hours, we are free of those glances
(I TOLD him, she is only 11)
One of the last ones I wrote to my late wife, or rather, to her ghost — and I was asking her for a bit of a payback, of a sort.
In Sotto Voce
I didn't expect to write to you again,
my meager voice is leeching away;
And the memory of me as us,
seems diffused by her eyes.
It's true, you know, wounds heal in time
and yes, it is fleeting as well.
But I have learned that time is not
and that some things hold eternal sway.
Do you object to my loving her?
She doesn't even believe that I do.
With little chance she ever will,
it's only a comfort to me.
You know I harbor you no ill will,
adrift beyond flesh and space.
Perhaps it's best I lose this voice,
lest I draw your spirit to this place.
But if you could visit one more time,
I pray, please go to her?
If you can me give this one thing,
let her feel the best of me.
Just let her see me, as you did,
right there, near the end.
Maybe she will think of it,
Instead of seeing me, only as a friend.
My son calls for his mother in his dreams 7 years later. He no longer has any conscious memories of his mother. But he remembers having them, knows he's forgotten — and no matter how I try to tell him otherwise, he blames this and so many of the things that I failed at — on himself. Some-when, I will pay for these failures.
Dream Cycles
Ah Dreams
they have cycles, too, it seems.
He was five, now thirteen.
I've failed at so much, most of all,
I failed to teach him, that
Wishes can come true.
For none of mine have,
and I can give him none of his...
It is, but he and I now.
I awakened from one more
unspeakable dream,
I heard my son mumbling in his.
*nods* yeah
He dreams of her still
It reminds me of mine, but
for him, I can only ache.
As the stars danced slowly
across the night sky,
I tucked him further into sleep.
I am alone, no one to tell
and so with helpless futility
I picked up this pen.
I thought the hardest part of cancer, for Barbara, would be the loss of life. By the end of it, I was wrong. I wrote this back when. I found it in an old envelope — 18 years later.
Her Dignity
They took away her hair,
and she laughed.
They took away her breasts,
and she cried.
They took away her dignity,
and she died.
-fin-
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