Absent the complexities of more common parent/child relationships (and, because we each had experienced those complexities, a certain clarity about what wasn’t worth getting excited about), we grew to relish the chance to give one another what all too few children and parents exchange; indeed, what, human to human, maybe life’s most precious gift: acceptance.
That evening when Bill and I were at the kitchen table and Rita reappeared from the bed, distressed, she was naked except for a camisole. What is striking to me about the situation was Bill’s lack of discomfort in my presence. Here was a man of propriety who wasn’t flustered a bit; so seamlessly had we become part of one another’s lives that we both knew that Rita’s nakedness at that moment was irrelevant.
Only love mattered.
Naturally, there came a point when, by any traditional standard, Rita no longer had even flashes of mental acuity. And yet, there was much going on inside her. Nonsensical her words may have been to the rational mind, but her tone, cadence, and energy were that of a woman coming to terms with the voices she’d been carrying around in her head for much of her life.
Many were the voices of those mind parasites we all are familiar with: unforgiveness, guilt, remorse, blame, inadequacy, judgment and the like. And some were the voices of her heart: so full of beauty her face glowed as if with the vision of her beloved Jesus. I’ve wondered on occasion what it is that Rita won’t have to meet again in her next life because, through Alzheimer’s, she let go of her attachment to it in this one. My experience of Rita is that, as she lost her mind, she grew in awareness beyond the ordinary human comprehension of what was sacred. From that part of her, that was accessible to others only heart-to-heart, I felt Rita’s amusement that her shifting priorities included starting every meal with dessert.
Along the way, Bill became a resident of the nursing home, eventually losing enough of his own mind that he joined Rita in the Alzheimer’s unit, where he died three years ago-Rita, a silent witness in a wheelchair next to his bed. I didn’t attend Bill’s funeral, spending the morning instead with Rita. As I often did, I brought her a couple of chocolate donuts. And also as I often did, I knelt on one knee by the side of her chair so that we might say hello eye-to-eye. I spoke to her often whenever we were together but I said only things like, “I love you, Rita,” and “I am grateful you are in my life.” On this day, however, as Bill’s funeral was taking place a few blocks away, I also said, “Today is a celebration of your Bill, Rita.” At that moment, Rita did something she’d done a few times before. She leaned forward so that our foreheads touched, and there we remained, in silence, for many minutes.
Earlier this week, my wife, Dear, and I saw two surgeons, both wonderful-by which I mean professionally competent and human. The first said that fast-growing tumors like that in Dear’s belly were always of concern. She also said we needed more advice than she could provide, specifically from a surgeon specializing in cancer. And so the appointment to see surgeon number two was made for the following day. I mention this chronology because on the way home from that initial meeting it seemed reasonable that the love of my life might die in the foreseeable future. Curiously, my biggest feeling was the relief. A burden had been lifted: the burden of so much of the nonsense I take seriously-the various ways I distract myself from bringing all the love I can to the moment I’m in. Too, I felt more deeply the gratitude I always feel whenever I am in Dear’s presence or am even just thinking of her.
That gratitude, on the ride home, however, included something new-the awareness that, whatever transpired, I was capable of being a loving force in the face of it. It was as though I had been preparing all our life together for this moment, and I was grateful to feel that I was as ready as I could be to step into a void whose only given was an unimaginable loss.
Of course, this could all be horse patootie and I’m the king of rationalization, but I don’t feel so, not completely anyway. Why? Because Dear and I go on more dates than all the celebs in People magazine, and we seldom leave the farm. And when we do venture forth, often as not it’s in Lucky the pickup and we’re on a date to the feed store for grain. I’ve been known to put on a tie for such special occasions.
Boston Symphony Orchestra: Berkshire Music Center
“Never say no to a party,” was a favorite maxim of Rita. To her, that meant any gathering of friends and family, or any special outing, such as a flower show or an afternoon at Symphony Hall. To Dear and me, Rita’s adage has come to mean opening ourselves to the sacredness inherent in any event, from a walk to the barn, or the touch of our fingers during the night’s sleep, to the upcoming appointment with the surgeon who will tell us whether Dear has cancer. Everything can be a date.
