I broke watching Robert decline. I felt I was dying with him, a difficult feeling to explain. How could a healthy 62-year-old woman believe she was expiring? Because my life was unwinding. Robert was my spouse, the parent, and the grandparent with me. When he passes, our shared memories will die too. Our sorrows and hard-fought victories, the hallmarks that corroborated my well-lived life will cease to be, as though my adult life never happened.
I can’t remember without you
Evidence shows that long-term couples split the responsibility of remembering things like key dates, phone numbers, and the bills that must be paid. (This is referred to as a “transactive memory system.”) When one person loses their partner, the surviving spouse reports feeling they have lost their mind. And in a way, they have. The person with whom they have split the cognitive responsibilities of their human experience can no longer help them be whole. Robert was still here, but in a very real way, he was not here. My memory had been cleaved in two.
Tell me about yourself
When I started seeing Will, I was in this state of being half a person. My nerves were raw. I reacted quickly to any perceived slight or misstep. But I desperately needed Will’s company. He delivered a sense of possibility. As he learned about my childhood, my work, and my kids, he validated my life still existed. In showing interest in me, he made me visible again and manifested a sliver of hope that there was more life to live. I started to rely on his attention.
On one of our early dates, we had dinner in Cotati, a little town, close to the regional university. We had a delicious Thai meal and then decided to take a walk around the town square. With the approach of fall, leaves were starting their lazy drift to the ground. Our path was flecked with pressed flower petals and mottled acorns. We talked about our plans for the coming week. Will mentioned that he’d made arrangements to watch a football game with a friend of his on Sunday. I went off the rails.
Spitting my words, I castigated Will for his lack of consideration. “Our time together is very limited. You see Ken every Monday! Why do you need to watch a football game with him on Sunday too?!”
But this is my life
I had committed myself to Robert. I dedicated my weekdays to his care. Carole, his hospice nurse visited on Wednesdays or Thursdays. She provided an update and recommended treatment protocols as new issues emerged. I spent my days visiting with Robert. The hospital bed had to be ordered. I reached out to his siblings and friends to arrange a last visit, a final goodbye. Robert needed more washable bed pads. I coordinated the hospice choir to sing at his bedside. His lactose-free protein shake was running low. The silicone toddler chews he agitated over were worn out and needed to be replaced.
Through all this, Will had, imperceptibly, become my lifeline. I developed an expectation that he would be available on the weekends. But of course, he had a life.
You don’t get it, do you?
He lifted his hands in surrender. “I don’t know what I’ve done to make you so angry.”
My mouth turned down in a tight grimace. “You didn’t tell me you had plans on Sunday.”
“But I’m telling you now. You fill your calendar with all sorts of activities. It’s a good thing you do this. I’m not angry at you for it.”
Oh. Now I understand.
I cocked my head in surprise. In that moment I realized that Will was becoming “my person.” The attachment was completely unexpected and by most accounts, unconventional, but there it was.
I looked at him with bewilderment. Why was I angry?
“I’m sorry. I just thought we would spend Sunday together.”
“Do you want me to cancel with Ken? I just thought you’d be busy.”
“No, that’s okay. Maybe we’ll get some dinner in the evening.”
And just like that, we notched another rung on the ladder of our relationship.
When I started to look for companionship, I knew that I needed something, but I wasn’t sure what exactly. Only after I’d embarked on this journey, could I articulate the need. I needed to live. I didn’t want to die.
I chose life.