Small Victories

Art and I had an"old fashioned" marriage—at least by today's standards. I took care of the kids; did the grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, and most of the cleaning; made doctor and dentist appointments; packed school lunches, drove car pool…all those things that were considered "woman's work" back then (and still are by many). Art took care of the "man's work"—home repair, lawn care, car care, taking out the garbage…and, most important, bringing home the paycheck. Still, we always thought of ourselves as a team. In fact, I can still close my eyes and hear him say, "We make a good team." And we did.

Although Art's job required him to travel quite a bit, when he was home, he never hesitated to help me with household chores. He would set the table for dinner and help clean up afterwords (until the kids were old enough to do it). If he heard the drier buzz, he'd be the first one to get the clothes out, fold them, and put them away. When the kids were babies, he was perfectly comfortable changing their diapers, bathing them, rocking them to sleep… With the possible exception of cooking, there wasn't much he wouldn't do around the house. He didn't like to cook; but I did, so I was perfectly happy to have that job to myself. Still, he did cook occasionally. Like most men, he was good at grilling, and he made good pancakes (the kids called them "panny cakes") and scrambled eggs with ham.

In contrast, other than taking out the garbage when Art was traveling, I rarely did any of those things traditionally called "man's work." I occasionally helped with some of the outside work, like planting flowers and raking some leaves in the fall, but I never mowed the lawn, trimmed the shrubs, or spread mulch; and, although I do know the difference between a regular screwdriver and a phillip's head screwdriver—and how to use a hammer—I never even tried to repair anything inside or outside the house. Of course, I never dreamed I would ever have to. Now I realize that I should have been paying more attention.

In the three years since Art died I have either hired someone or relied on family and friends to help me with the "man's work"—plumbing issues, car repair, and things that required climbing on ladders or running power washers…. Depending on others to help with the things Art routinely handled hasn't exactly bolstered a feeling of self-confidence. That's why I was so pleased with myself when I recently figured out why my dishwasher wasn't working and was able to solve the problem without calling a repairman. I also researched, purchased, and installed a new vacuum system for my pool, with just a little help from a friend.

Small victories, but victories nonetheless.

Best Laid Plans

The poet T. S. Eliot famously wrote that April is the "cruelest" month, but, for me, it's June. I used to look forward to June because it marks the beginning of summer. It is the month of warm days and cool nights, graduations, weddings, Father's Day, my youngest daughter's birthday… I was married in June and that was one of the happiest days of my life. But then Art died in June, just one day after our 47th wedding anniversary, and that was the saddest day of my life. So for me, the month of June now represents both the best and the worst times of my life.

This year June seems particularly cruel, because this is the year Art and I would have celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary. Foolishly, I had already made plans for celebrating our special day. Instead of throwing a big party I wanted to rent a place on Maui (our favorite spot) big enough for the whole family. I even alerted our four children to start saving their money for plane tickets. Looking back on it now, I realize that, even if Art had lived, it would have been a challenge to execute my plan. Maui isn't someplace you go for a long weekend, so, considering the demands of their various jobs and other obligations, it would be difficult to find a date when everyone could take enough time away to make the trip. After Art died, the kids and I talked about my plan and decided we still want to try to have a family gathering in Maui sometime; but it won't be this year, and it probably won't be in June.

Sadly, I won't be celebrating a golden wedding anniversary, but I won't be sitting home alone on June 23rd feeling sorry for myself. I'll be on a tour of Sicily with two of my daughters. Being there on the anniversaries of the best and worst days of my life will be bittersweet, but it seems somehow appropriate. Art's grandparents, on both sides, emigrated to the United States from Sicily and, although we often talked about taking a trip there, we never seemed to find the right time, for reasons that, in retrospect, seem pretty insignificant.

It still saddens me that Art and I never traveled to Sicily together, but I like to think he'll be there with us in spirit.

For Better or Worse

In a recent episode of a popular TV series, two of the characters were talking about the fact that marriage is "for better or worse," when one of them commented, "Oh yes, I forgot about 'or worse.' Nobody told us about that." Although I chuckled at the time, I couldn't help thinking how true it is. When you're going through the excitement of planning a wedding and talking about how wonderful it will be to spend the rest of your life with the one you love, no one mentions the "or worse" part of the vow you're taking. Of course, "worse" is a relative term, and, given the current divorce rate, many couples don't stay married long enough to experience "or worse."

From my perspective, there's nothing worse than having to stand helplessly by as your spouse suffers through a debilitating, ultimately terminal, illness.  So I've already experienced the "or worse" in my marriage, and, although it has been nearly three years since that terrible time, it still haunts me. I suppose it always will at some level. But would I have chosen not to marry if I had known what the "or worse" was going to be? Of course not. As heartbreaking as it was, in the grand scheme of things, it was a small price for me to pay for 47 years spent loving, and being loved by, a wonderful man.

All too often the "or worse" moments in a marriage, especially a longterm marriage, involve the type of debilitating, potentially terminal illness my husband experienced—while I stood helplessly by praying for a miracle that never came. I have several friends who are living that nightmare now, and it saddens me to see them struggling through endless days sitting by hospital beds, or waiting in doctors' offices, emergency rooms, chemotherapy suites… All too often, these friends (some in their late 70s and early 80s) are being asked to make medical decisions they don't fully understand, and not knowing what questions to ask. Is this how we are supposed to spend our "golden years?"

Watching what my friends are going through now—and remembering what Art and I went through three years ago—has started me thinking about the issue of quality versus quantity of life. As fate would have it, a fellow medical writer recently sent a link to a wonderful article about how doctors deal with this issue when faced with medical crises in their own lives. There is a lot of "food for thought" in this article. I think everyone should read it. Here is the link.     http://zocalopublicsquare.org/thepublicsquare/2011/11/30/how-doctors-die/read/nexus/

After reading the article, I couldn't help but think about how nice it would be if we could have a national conversation about this issue without it being used as a political football; and without the use of the term "death panels" being thrown out there to scare senior citizens, or anyone with a life-threatening medical condition. Wouldn't it be nice if patients faced with a potentially terminal illness could feel comfortable about asking their doctors to thoroughly discuss the pros and cons of the treatments they are recommending? Perhaps more importantly, wouldn't it be nice if, when recommending a new cutting edge treatment—or any treatment—to a grievously ill patient, doctors could feel comfortable about talking honestly about quantity versus quality of life issues without fear of being accused of "rationing care?"

During the "or worse" moment in my marriage, I was faced with having to make a decision about how aggressively I wanted doctors to continue treating my husband. Unfortunately, he was not in a position to make that decision for himself, but, because we had both included advance directives about our end-of-life care in our wills, I knew his wishes. It is unimaginably difficult to make the decision to let go of a loved one. You always want to believe there is some miracle treatment that will stave off the inevitable. Fortunately, I had a doctor who was honest, and brave, enough to say, "I think it's time for comfort care." It was painful to hear, but it was the truth.   

That "Couple Thing" Revisited

A couple of weeks ago I received an email from a fellow medical writer who had just discovered my blog, and had found my last post particularly interesting. She shared that she was divorced a few years ago after 25 years of marriage, and that her mother was recently widowed after 60 years of marriage. This sparked her interest in how people rebuild their lives after the death of a spouse, divorce, or the end of any longterm intimate relationship. She also attached an article—How to be Successfully Single in Middle-Age, by Allison Allen—that she had found interesting and had used as the basis for a discussion with her mother about how she might cope with being suddenly alone after all those years of marriage. Although I am well beyond "middle age," I, too, found the article interesting and particularly relevant to women who are "going it alone," either by choice or circumstance, in a society that seems to be designed for couples.

I wrote about what I refer to as that "couple thing" in one of my very first posts and have made reference to the issue in my blog a number of times. For me (and I suspect most widows and widowers) it is one of the most difficult adjustments I have had to make. And, as I wrote in a recent post, it is one that I may never fully be comfortable with. Since Valentine's Day is fast approaching, it seems like an appropriate time to discuss what we widows (and others) might learn about being successfully single. After all, thanks primarily to the greeting card, jewelry, candy and flower industries, Valentine's Day is the ultimate, nationally promoted, day for couples (with New Year's Eve a close second).

Ms. Allen's article focuses on the writings of Mary Lou Serafino, a psychologist who helps people learn how to be comfortable with their singleness. Much of Dr. Serafino's advice is definitely directed toward women who are much younger than I, but she does make some important observations that singles of all ages can learn from. For example, she points out that psychological development does not stop at adulthood, as was once believed, thus giving us the potential to be "very different people 5 years from now than we are today." I also found several other pieces of advice particularly relevant.

• Look at periods of singleness as an investment in yourself—a time to work on finding new interests that will make your life richer. 
• Make it easier on yourself by seeking others who are working toward that same goal.
• Be willing to go beyond your comfort zone, even at the risk of triggering negative emotions.
• Learn to ignore the (mostly well-meaning) expressions of sympathy related to your being single.

Although it's probably not so true for the young single women of today, for someone like me who was part of a couple for more than half her life, it takes considerable courage to go out alone to dinner, or the theater, or even a movie—especially on a Friday or Saturday night. I haven't found that courage yet, but I'm working on it.