Reflection in the Quiet: Can We Touch the Cloud?
It has been five months since Hubby’s passing. The house is quiet. I hear the birds chirping in my backyard. I heard the whirr of the heater high on the wall of my office (which serves also as our lounge/television room…and which was also Hubby’s temporary bedroom when we needed a space to install a hospital bed and all his “accoutrements”). Time to one’s self is a luxury. It allows me the opportunity to reflect on what has recently passed after almost 50 years of marriage. Dealing with the total impact of the years of dementia of our loved one on our lives does not end the day they leave this earth.
It seems to me that most people do not discuss the adjustment period after the death of a loved one. Hence, I am continuing to write this diary…just a bit longer.
Knowing that I could not absorb the voluminous onslaught of emails and letters received upon Hubby’s death, I began a thick plastic file as a depository for them until such time as I would be able to focus and appreciate them. A permanent home for all the important items which capsulized his life. Special photographs. A list of everyone who came to the funeral and shiva to pay their respects. Death certificates. Small unexpected treasures such as a letter written by his hand, or the first chapter of a book over which he labored, writing by hand, which never had other chapters to follow.
In an effort to create “order” in my life, a thorough cleaning out of files which had collected for most of the past 20 years, brought with it some special moments. A file with Hubby’s name on it indeed held treasures. I had deposited an envelope there years ago which he had kept in his briefcase. The brown container was a shape I had never seen before – British, perhaps, but definitely at least 50 years old. I gently removed the contents. The papers inside were even older than the envelope:
A letter from Hubby at the age of 18 (hence, almost 80 years ago), when he was inducted into the British Army, written to his parents about the conditions he was experiencing. It touched my heart to read his thoughts at this tender age.
A letter from Hubby’s mother (a.k.a. my mother-in-law), written to Hubby and his little brother Lionel when they were sent to the countryside to be safe from the assault of bombing on London during World War II. His beloved brother died at the age of 11 from meningitis. Seeing Mama’s handwriting after her own passing more than 20 years ago touched my heart.
A rather strange piece of paper with information written by Hubby in pencil; it is a bit hard to decipher but I remember when it was written. A couple of years ago he began to speak about his wonderful mother and her life history, as he recalled it. I suggested then that he write down these thoughts. I saved the paper as it is possibly one of the last cogent writings that I have from him.
A letter from his daughter to her beloved “Daddy” when she was no more than 18 herself, in her own script, was therein. The last letter she ever wrote him before taking her own life in a double suicide with her beloved. There was no sign in the letter that she would become so despondent in the coming weeks. It was a tragedy of mammoth proportions which not only shaped Hubby’s future, but my own as well.
Both marriage certificates and divorce decrees are in the file. A letter from wife #2 in appreciation for Hubby having married her even though he had not been in love with her. She was accepting that the divorce he had requested (just prior to meeting me at JFK Airport) was inevitable in spite of her desire to stay by his side.
Also lovingly placed in the plastic file is the astounding three-page article about myself and Hubby, our marriage, and the writing of this “Dementia Diary” from the Jerusalem Post magazine written by Liane Wakabayashi. Published a full year before Hubby’s passing, it brought us both great pleasure. I kept showing the article to Hubby and asking if he knew who the man in the photo. “Me of course!” It was a photo of him on the beach at the Dead Sea, muscles bulging… slathered in mud… looking quite stunning.
Touching these treasures gives me context and comfort. It flits through my mind that future generations will not have hand-written letters to save. They keep every communication in “the Cloud” thinking that it will be there for perpetuity. How does one browse through “the Cloud?” How does one “touch it?” Perhaps in the future, a return to the handwritten letter will be in vogue for important communications between those who love one another. It is easier to treasure the physical rather than the ethereal.
Hubby used to tell me that he would love “to do it all over again! The joy…the pain…all of it.” His joie de vivre was an inspiration, and although I am not as dramatic as he, it has infiltrated my own being. I too now appreciate every moment and want it never to end. The birds outside my window understand what we humans tend to forget… that we need to sing from joy that we have been blessed with this life and try to remember our obligation to make one another’s lives as full and sweet as possible.
The British author Rose Tremain is credited with this incredibly important phrase. She said we must remember: “Life is not a dress rehearsal.”
