What doesn't kill you. . .

I’m in a reflective mood today although I also got a lot accomplished. Dad would have had only one word for today’s weather—unhealthy.  The day began with snow, light at first, then big feathery flakes.  Next there was sleet, then rain mixed with snow, then rain, and tonight it is again turning to snow. 

As I left the gym after my workout and was driving away in my car I experienced a feeling that I often get.  First there is a sense that I am alone, not only in the car,   but in the world.  Along with this there is the realization that I am free to do anything I choose.  Should I decide to do so, I could turn down the heat in the house, lock the doors, and go anywhere I like.  One way to describe this feeling is a paradoxical term I’ve invented—forced freedom.  For just an instant I have an almost euphoric feeling that I am without any responsibilities, maybe for the first time in my life.  This is quickly followed by the realization that, although I may feel all alone, in fact, I am important to my children, grandchildren, relatives and friends.

It’s interesting to me that I said I am important to others; not that I have a responsibility or obligation to be available for them.  Perhaps this is another gift that Gwen left for me.  For the duration of her illness, right up to the day she died, she never complained, became angry or made excessive demands.  She made it easy for me to care for and love her.  Caring for her was neither a responsibility nor an obligation; we talked about this, it was a chance to make our love for each other visible in a context we could never have imagined when we exchanged our wedding vows.  We knew that not everyone receives a gift such as the miraculous love we received,. and we nurtured and cared for it always. 

My son, Mike, has said to me; “what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.”  With Gwen and me it was somewhat the opposite: what killed her made both of us stronger.  (I wish there were a better way to say that; it seems almost profane to say something as beautiful as that so bluntly.)

This evening, Dear, for just a little while I lay on the bed in the room downstairs where we were together to the end.  I breathed in sweet memories of lying close to you or simply holding your hand.   One of us would say, sometimes in a whisper, “I love you.”  The other always said, “I love you more.”  Then I had a good cry.