I don't remember much of the days that followed his death, nor the year that came after. I was on auto pilot and lived (can I really call it living?) each day with no memory of the day before. All I knew was that he was gone. I didn't sleep, I couldn't eat, and the simplest of tasks would rock my world. I know that those who have lost loved ones know what I am talking about. Shopping at the grocery store, looking at things I thought I should buy and forgetting he wasn't there to eat them. How many times did I walk into the store, only to walk out to my car minutes later, so no one would see my cry? How many times did I pick up the cell phone to call him on my way back from my mom's house, to ask what he wanted me to pick up on the way home, only to be torn to bits knowing he wasn't going to answer the phone? I would call his phone and listen to his voice, over and over, and finally, I recorded it so it would never be erased from my mind. The sound of his simple message, "This is Gene, please leave a message." would leave me helpless, holding on to his picture, I didn't know how to make this primeval ache, this silent scream, go away. Listening to the music he had recorded for me, I could remember what it was that made it special to him, why he had recorded it for me, and how he would surprise me by filling my CD player full of new songs. But I could not remember what I was supposed to be doing at any given moment.
Intellectually, I knew he was gone. Gone...as in died. Not in another city, or country. Completely and with such finality, he was forever gone. In my heart, I would expect him to walk through the door at any second. I would awaken from a restless sleep, (the days and nights no longer had any meaning) I would fall asleep for mere minutes, not hours, and wake thinking he was there. Not knowing what else to do, I got into the car, and drove, so I wouldn't be at home alone without him. And I remember thinking that this was the most absurd escape I could think of? To drive around in the predawn hours because I was afraid to wake and find him gone? The house would be empty anyway when I came home, his shoes near the door, his jacket hanging on the hook. He was gone!!!!!! All I could think of was how true the following poem was. I did not want to be anywhere but where he was.
Funeral Blues by W.H Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
I wanted to lock the doors, shut the blinds, and never go outside again.
There were papers to go through, things to be done, my mind was blank. I could only play back his illness and his death. They say there are stages if grief, but I was numb. Shock? Realization? I have no clue. All I know is that I remember wishing the sun would stop shining, and recalled the above poem I had heard in the movie "Four Weddings and a Funeral." We had watched it together, and we had both been a bit choked up. But that was a long time ago. Now I was living the words I had heard. Repeating them like a mantra. Each time I thought I was getting better at coping with his loss, something else would happen to knock me back down into the abyss, into the black reality that I was truly alone. Without him.
When did the symptoms really begin? I don't mean the infection he had fought. I mean the beginning of his kidney failure. He was golfing that summer, but he was tired. I noticed that each week brought new symptoms that he tried to hide. First, it was the overwhelming exhaustion, the headaches, the short bouts of nausea. His doctor visits were frequent, and as they tried to rescue his transplanted kidney with medications, all with their own side effects. But they were trying, and I was praying that something would work. His headaches grew worse, his aches were more pronounced. But he wasn't giving up. That summer, he would golf when he felt well, work in the garden, and help my mom at her house. It was a slow decline, but it was an obvious one. He no longer had the stamina, and the medications were taking their toll. On him, the side effects making him sick and irritable: on me, as I silently watched him sleep after a golf game, the usual hour long nap turning to three hours, trying to smooth his irritation, offer encouragement, and bite my tongue. The summer turned to fall, and he wanted to spend time in Florida during the winter, and I began to make plans. He was not yet on dialysis, and since he was not yet on the transplant list, my hope still ran high. Perhaps the sun and gulf air would make him well? Certainly he would not become any sicker if he was there. I was so convinced it would be OK.
This time we would spend two months in Florida, he would golf, I would walk the beach and wait for him to finish. We would visit friends and laugh and dance the way we once did. To some extent we did. Friends came to visit, we visited friends in other cities. He golfed, but each time, it seemed to sap his strength a little more. He loved the game. Now, when he was able to afford to play as much as he wanted, he didn't have the strength to walk the course as he once did. Often, we would go to watch the sunset over the gulf, and with his arms around me, he would stare wistfully at the gulf, and smile. "We'll move here someday. You can walk the beach as much as you want, and pick all the shells to bring home for your fish bowls." Did I see his eyes mist over? His voice was very soft as he spoke again. "We'll be two old people, walking hand in hand, into the sunset." It was a phrase he had used many times during our marriage, but this time, it sounded so full of hope, I felt my heart skip a beat. Something was wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. He had many good days, and just as many bad ones. I saw the changes, but said very little. I knew that he would have to go for blood work while we were there, and he went; each time hopeful that there would be a down turn in the creatinine. After each test, when he called in for the results, he was quiet. I didn't have to ask. I knew. The levels were rising. Soon, it would be time for dialysis. He could not go on this way for long, or he would die. I knew he would fight it, for as long as he could, but it was an inevitable fact.
On one of my trips back home, to care for my mother and aunt for several days, he drove me to the airport as usual. This time, instead of dropping me off, he stayed. We had a drink in the lounge and talked to other passengers. I thought he would go, so he would miss the traffic back to the condo, but he stayed. When my flight was announced, he walked me to the security gate, and held me, very tightly. "I love you. Have a safe flight." "I love you too, I'll be back soon, don't worry about me." I told him. I knew he worried that I never ate enough if he wasn't around, he worried I would get sick from the change of temperature. Suddenly, he took my face in his hands. "Remember this moment. I don't think I'm going to make it this time." He kissed me, and turned away. "What are you saying?" I asked. "Nothing. I don't know. Go ahead honey. Your flight is leaving." I turned, stunned at what he had said. I could not believe I had heard him utter those words, and the moment I landed, I called him. I was so tormented by those words, I couldn't get them out of my mind. "It's nothing. I just know that I won't get a kidney this time. I know she won't come forward. I need a transplant now. I just don't think I'm going to make it, and I want you to be prepared. You won't be able to save me this time babe." Oh my God! What had brought this on? I reassured him, I talked to him, I reminded him we had gone through far more serious medical traumas, and he had survived. "I just have a feeling. I shouldn't have said anything. I don't know what came over me. Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere soon. Hurry back." I didn't know what to do. I stayed and took care of what I had come to do, rushing back a day early. He seemed normal, but he didn't want to talk about it anymore. He made reservations for our yearly brunch at the Ritz Carlton, and was his old self again. We had met so many of the staff there, we were almost regulars. He was full of laughter and romance. We took pictures on the beach, and more than once, I felt a shiver of fear when I looked at him. What did he know that I didn't? Our friends came to visit, and he enjoyed the camaraderie. He was a gracious host, but his sense of the absurd was absolutely hysterical. We took our friend John, who was more like a brother to us, to see the alligators in the Everglades National Park, and I knew he just couldn't get in and out of the car constantly, it was too taxing. John and I were standing at the edge of a deep pond, admiring the two gators lying on the tree branches, when suddenly I spotted an alligator that seemed to have had his face painted. I began to take pictures, when we heard two very loud splashes. They were coming directly towards us. We weren't sure, should we run, or stay? Realizing we were pushing our luck, we ran for the car, and heard Eugene laughing loudly. "What's so funny? We could have been eaten by those huge monsters." I said. "You were safe." His face lit up with a mischievous grin. "Yep. You would have been the appetizer, John would have been the main course. But didn't you notice? I left the doors open for you two hunters. I could have been bitten by a poisonous snake. Instead, I saved your butts. I'm the hero!" We went to eat alligator tail and shrimp at a local restaurant, while my husband played the hero role to the hilt. Another page for the memory book.
John stayed for a week, and we would wait for Eugene to come home from his golf games, then wander around doing touristy things. More and more, I walked the beach alone, while Eugene and John would sit under the shade of an umbrella while I trudged for miles along the waters' edge. If I walked far enough, perhaps I would think of a solution. It was clear now, his strength was waning. Soon, it would be time. The dreaded time. For now, though, we would live and laugh as though nothing was wrong, as though tomorrow this would all be gone, just a bad dream, and he would be well again.
He dreaded the knowledge that our time in Florida was growing shorter. He knew that reality awaited him, our time of dreaming over. He took me out for Stone Crabs, making special reservations, a special table, a special celebration, he called it. The pianist was fabulous, and after dinner, we sat at the piano bar and he requested "Moon Dance." by Van Morrison. Then he took me by the hand and as in so many times past, we danced to our special song. The pianist spoke with us. "You are in love, the two of you! You have a rare thing, I hope you keep it forever." I could feel the tears prick my eyes. I thanked him for that moment. He would never know how special that love was, and what we were facing. But as he watched us dance, to yet another of Eugene's requests, he saw the infirmity in Eugene, he saw us in a very different light, and in a private aside, he asked me if my husband was ill. All I could do was nod. He promised me that he would keep us in his prayers. "The kind of love you have is rare. You don't see it all the time. Both of you revel in each other. I will never play that song again without thinking of you both." I never went back to that restaurant after Eugene died. I wanted to, but I just couldn't do it. I could never go back again and certainly not alone.
Why am I digressing from the rest of the story? Because in some small way, I would like to let you get to know my husband and the kind of man he was. To omit this, would be so very wrong. He was here, on this earth, he lived, he loved, he had his faults, his moments of impatience, but he was here. In the days and weeks to come, I hope to leave you with a sense of the kind of man he was; the impact he had on those around him, the people's lives he touched with his humour and his kindness, because this story is not just about his death, but also about his life, our life. His feet were planted in my earth for such a short time.
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