Many days have passed since this essay began. Dear’s operation went well. “Benign” was the pathology assessment. Recovery from a large incision the only remaining physical implication. Sighs of relief far and wide. Our own relief, Dear’s and mine, is primarily for those many children of the next generation who look upon Dear as an elder of joy and playfulness and love and wisdom-an invaluable nurturer in their lives. Thankfully, those kids won’t have to grow their own love and wisdom through the loss of Dear in this particular way at this time.
While Dear’s good health is certainly my preference, the blessing of this event isn’t that we’ve dodged the Grim Reaper or a prolonged illness or anything like that. The blessing has been how we have grown our love. Sometimes I feel that the number one request of the universe is simply to be willing to make room for whatever presents itself. Few life events are richer than those that test that willingness, those that oblige us to shine a fresh light on our choices, distinguishing what is essential from what is important or urgent or merely habitual. Dear and I, odd as it may sound, were willing to embrace cancer, death, whatever-and all the unknown that came with it. And we were able to do so, in no small measure, from the example of the many elders we have been privileged to know, relatives and others, who, unbeknownst to them probably, have modeled for us the nobility of meeting heartbreak with grace, or at least trying to.
Two of them, to be sure, Bill and Rita. As an English teacher with high standards, married to an editor, it’s no surprise that Rita was an engaging writer, cards, and letters mostly. One of the last coherent messages she wrote to Dear, a brief note, ended with the words, “I love you to the sky…all rosy pink.” This was probably more than a year before Rita entered the Alzheimer’s residence. In the interim, Bill, hoping to find a positive way for Rita to help herself through the terror she was experiencing, gave her a journal titled “Count Your Blessings,” and encouraged her to record her thoughts and feelings for her children. Predictably, the result is both painful and inspiring to read. The last dated entry was January 10, six months before she left her home for good. Rita wrote:
It’s a hard time. I’m very sad. Sometimes people have that I have time at know-time-I’m earn their whase-I’d not time yet (unless you send me to Jesus-) most every thinks I’m a pest. I’m (new sent) I could I could go to “Jesus” because I’m a peck hear-I.
Under that paragraph Rita drew two lines then wrote:
I will be better.
Many empty pages later were her final entry, undated:
I will try to do well for Dad and our children.
This is the woman whose death has officially placed upon Dear and me the mantle of elder in our immediate family. No wonder they say growing old isn’t for sissies.
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Steve Roberts is the author of Cool Mind Warm Heart, a collection of essays, stories, and photographs of stone sculptures he builds on his Vermont farm. He can be found on the web at CoolMindWarmHeart.com and at TheHeartOfTheEarth.com.
