Loss
Loss is such a deceptively simple sounding word, almost inadequate to describe the deficit that is widowhood. Yet, it is loss that we dreaded, that causes the grief and mourning that follow a death. The loss is what we eventually will heal from.
The Deceased Lose, Too.
I cannot think of the loss of Richard without also remembering the losses he endured on his way to death.
Until his late seventies, Richard was a man of superior intellect. He had a quick and subtle mind, enormous curiosity, broad-ranging interests, keen powers of observation, and an ever-present sense of humor. He was a quick study, constantly absorbing and integrating new information with what he already knew.
Richard was also adept at complex tasks. He could fly an airplane, sail a boat, send and receive Morse code, play several musical instruments, lead a group SCUBA dive, create engineering and analysis concepts, and cook a complicated meal without a recipe. All without a fuss.
He grew so dim, his wonderful and quirky mind becoming faded and tangled. He lost the ability to recall events, people, places and how they all fit together. To his frustration, the telephone and tv remote somehow blended into one instrument. He could no longer take care of himself in the most basic ways. How to remove the cap from a tube of toothpaste became too hard to comprehend. His brain could no longer tell his fingers how to find the chords on a guitar.
And on good days, or good moments during bad days, he understood what was happenening.
It was so hard to see this remarkable man slip away into his new and diminished state. I watched him age, first with gentle amusement and then with outrage that his declining health stole him from himself.
I am so sad that he had to undergo this.
All Losses, Great and Small
When Richard died, I knew (duh) that I lost him. What I didn't realize at first was how many big and small parts of living were also lost -- and would probably never happen to me again.
Intimacy. No, I'm not talking about sex. Sex is only a small part of it. By intimacy, I mean being totally at ease with someone. At ease enough to sit in comfortable silence. At ease enough to smile or cry together when words aren't enough or get in the way. At ease enough to reveal yourself to your partner and to accept what your partner reveals. At ease enough to share a closet, and bill paying, and household chores.
Casual affection. An embrace, a hug, a pat, or even a glance for no particular reason.
Shared history. The person who understood the emotional importance of salmon cakes is gone. The person you conceived another person with. The person you had adventures and misadventures with. The person who laughed and cried with you. The person who knew how you liked your eggs cooked. The person who knew not everything about you, but more than anyone else on earth.
Familiar routines. Familiar and comforting routines gave shape and texture to life. Those routines are gone now too. Small everyday pleasures like having a espresso in the hot tub before the morning fog cleared. Having the radio tuned to a gentle music station every night, all night. Grocery shopping together. Having a bowl of popcorn while we watched a movie. Saying goodnight. Having a pastry and coffee by the ocean on Friday mornings. Winding the clock. Calling family and friends on Sunday. The 1,000 little insignificant activities that defined us as a couple.
Shared interests. There were so many! Most of them hold little attraction now. Will that come back? It's hard to imagine.