Yes. I can't imagine being with someone in a mutually satisfying relationship for 5 years, much less 50. Maybe I'm not built that way. We lose people and people lose us. As a single person, I worry about my dogs and my cat, and must have someone to tend to them through adoption or finding them a suitable savior, should I go suddenly. And I crate them at night, and often go into a spin of anxiety that I'll die in my sleep, and no one will notice for days that I'm gone; and that my beloved pups will be trapped without care and they will suffer, too. I'm not super old, but I'm on my way... The things we worry about, ugh. On a lighter note, my laugh out loud favorite sentence in the piece is "I never had a garden or met a plant I could not kill." I totally relate to that. If it doesn't have 4 legs and tail, I'd forget it existed. Do not give me plants. My friends know this. If by chance I receive the gift of a potted growing thing, I find someone to adopt it, and have been known to preemptively dispose of it, I'm so confident of my lack of ability. Love to you Rona and hi to Paul. Happy you have each other! xo
Nan, my favorite sentence is the one about forgetting the existence of anything without four legs and a tail. I have to ask, though: What about tripod dogs? I’ve met some gems.
A tripod dog is absolutely included in that sentence. I've met some great ones too, though too many share the name "Lucky" for my taste. I've just never had one as a member of my clan. Oh, and tailless 3 and 4 leggeds are good, too. But you got the point! Love to you. xo
This was a tough read for me Rona. I have been a widow for a little over three years. My husband died at 53 from metastatic soft tissue sarcoma, a rare cancer. He was the kindest, most loving husband and father to our then 9-year-old son. He wasn't perfect and we had our issues, but he was a damn good cook and smart as hell. Grief is not what I thought it will be. I thought I would be prepared when he died, but it was a shock. Our brains cannot process the absence of someone so integral to our daily life. It's not a cognitive impairment, although I still have some of those. I liken it to rearranging your kitchen. You know you moved the silverware from one drawer to another, but before you can even form a thought you always reach for it in the old spot. It takes a while to get used to. I laugh, I cry, I have so much to be grateful for, and I am. There is a duality in grief I could never have understood before Steven died - the things that bring me the most joy also make me sad. It isn't like two sides of the same coin, but two halves of a heart broken open. XO 🥰❤️
Amy, I am sorry for the continuing loss you describe so affectingly here. The two halves, the silverware in a different drawer… these sound like fragments of an essay I would like to read. Perhaps it already exists. No beloved spouse is perfect and all are indelible.
Such rich descriptions of your process, Amy, and offered with the kind of openness that comes from having your heart exposed to the elements. Thank you, and hugs for the parts that will always be hard.
This is so vivid: " Our brains cannot process the absence of someone so integral to our daily life. It's not a cognitive impairment, although I still have some of those. I liken it to rearranging your kitchen. You know you moved the silverware from one drawer to another, but before you can even form a thought you always reach for it in the old spot." No comparison to an integral partner but the loss of our first service dog gutted me. I still call our new dog by his name and am surprised it is not him. They are similar but very different.
My grieve with disabled daughters is of a different nature—I don't know but I am glad you can be with yours Amy and write so eloquently about it.
We all seem to be at it. On the same day that Ray and I innocently had a long conversation over lunch about life without each other, @DebbieWeil posted her piece on the issue. I then raised it with @AnneBoyd in her comments which led to further discussion. And now you, Rona, add your always worth reading thoughts. Is there something in the water ??
Actually, I think it’s something that all long married people can’t help thinking about and, where possible, planning for. Even the thinking is a kind of preparation.
I did think about it when younger but not very often. It often comes up now, with a combination of practical things (how does the damn remote work?) and friendly explorations of what we would miss. Laughing a lot is high on the list. BUT we are both very clear that we want the other to find someone new as soon as possible).
And amusingly, when I first went to the University of Michigan in 1959, a friend (also going) was very excited that Donald Hall taught there. She immediately signed up for his class. I haven’t heard his name in 65 years.
Such a great essay, Rona, and such insightful responses! I'm glad Paul is okay. My sweet Sam, 10 years my senior, reminds me of our age gap regularly. Carpe diem, he says. Seize the fish. Stupid joke still makes me laugh every time.
Hi Rona, I love this post so much because I’m doing research right now on E.B. White and his wife, Katharine. I hear echoes through your reading. Personally, I am a catastrophist. And a planner. Health-wise I have it well over my husband who is riddled with corporeal griefs. However, I’m one car wreck away from demise myself. I think if death all the time because I have two disabled adult children who depend on functioning, wage earning, health insurance bearing parents. Who will provide for them when/if Jeff and I are gone?
The more you love, the deeper the loss. Grief is the price you pay for love. But love itself is a reason for living. Lately I’ve had a stretched of overburdened days, and love of my husband and children are the only things to carry me through. I can only think of Jeff’s absence while also thinking the inverse, and leaving an easier path for him (easier than my non-planning, ostrich-head-in-the-sand man has left for me—he’s a man who could never read this post—too painful and overwhelming).
I’d cope by working and planning. Research, writing, and keeping up with the kids. Now that I think of it, I should schedule time for crying.
Obviously my ways and my husband’s are so opposite. Driven in different ways for the sake of balance, perhaps? The trick after disaster is righting the boat after it’s overturned.
Oh, Zina. What a lot of corporeal and other grief for one loving soul to carry. Your project on the Whites sound fascinating. I hear there's a new biography of Katharine on the way, or perhaps already here. I love those two and detect similarities to Kenyon and Hall.
I loved reading this, Rona, and I shall write more later. My cousin found love unexpectedly at age 58 (her partner and husband is 75 now, and she would have turned 67 next weekend) and they had a loving, friendship filled relationship. We arrived in the UK last Sunday and we were to visit them in their new home by the sea, and she died shockingly unexpectedly the evening before we arrived. My heart breaks for him. Life is full of amazing joy and unexpected twists. A poignant reminder to love one another like crazy, ragged and authentic. I loved reading your story aloud to my beloved best friend over breakfast today.
Judy, you’re giving me shivers of sorrow and astonishment at both the marvel of late love and the vulnerability of it. I am so sorry for the loss of your cousin and friend.
At age eighty I am living with a husband who has a diagnosis of moderate Alzheimers. Trust me there is nothing moderate about his behaviors. We have been married for fifty eight years this week , most of them full of adventures through travel, family and life. Now is a time for reflection and patience. I so appreciate your piece. Thank you for being here for your readers.
I could relate to the widow buying flowers. For a year after Sam died, I bought myself flowers once a week. A lot of anticipatory grief work going on here. And as always so brilliantly written.
Jill, I didn’t know about your loss of a beloved spouse, and my heart goes out to you. I doubt there’s any way to prepare oneself. I’m glad you related to my essay.
It's been 15 years since his suicide. His cancer had returned and he hid it from me; since we had no insurance (9 mo before the Affordabe Healthcare Act) as farmers and he didn't want to leave me bankrupt. The lack of anticipatory grief complicates such a sudden loss. Thank goodness for grief counseling and fabulous therapists.
Death, and what happens in the immediate after, is not an uncommon topic of conversation for me and my husband. We talk of how we want to be remembered, and how we hope to appreciate the release to new adventures for the one gone. But we can't comprehend how much it will upend us, how difficult the pain. I know my mother never really got over the loss of my father, and no matter how busy she kept herself, spent the 13 years she outlived him with a burden of loneliness she could never put down.
Thank you for a touching and beautifully-written essay today. None of us gets out of here alive, right? Best to consider what we love about living while we can.
First, Rona, I'm glad Paul's OK. I think about who will go first often, perhaps too much so. I'm about to turn 66 and my husband is 67, so I hope we have a good decade and a half left in us, but pesky medical conditions keep creeping up, so we take nothing for granted. Then there's that proverbial bus that may hit... In the meantime, I try to enjoy all the beauty that blooms.
Beautiful love story in so many ways. My wife and I joke often about what life will be when the first of us goes. But behind the jokes is a looming dread. The mix of joy and sadness is the blood that runs through a life.
When I read the (many) wonderful essays by women writers regarding their spouses/partners and the meaningful and supportive connections they share with them, I feel a sense of longing, regret, and even envy that I do not have a wonderful mate to share life with. While I did have what I thought was a wonderful marriage for 23 years, after it unravelled 20 years ago, I have never been able to rekindle another relationship. For years I was bereft about not finding another love, but now at 71 I'm content, strong and grateful for my solo life. (I've written about it on my Substack.) In some ways I'm grateful that I am not tethered to a spouse/partner, in that I will never have to face the deep grief that comes from losing a mate. My heart goes out to widows/widowers who must suffer that loss.
The memories shared eloquently here are bittersweet for us all and must bring a special sadness to a woman in your position. Believe it or not, I've never had a solo life. I went directly from student housing with roommates to an apartment with my husband-to-be. I'm glad you've made a life that works for you as a creative explorer.
Having been part of an "Us" for 48 years, I read this with rapt attention and a deep sense of gratitude dancing with the weight of dread in my chest. Not perfect, this shared life has been wondrous and fulfilling. And someday it will be over.
Lovely essay Rona. Living with gratitude and appreciation in the present can do a lot to comfort later loss. I'm glad to hear Paul is ok. I am in my ninth year of widowhood. For me, acceptance and time have slowly returned the memories of life with Bernie to me to be enjoyed and treasured. I can enjoy good things (like the Dodgers at the World Series) by knowing we would be watching it together and he would want me I to still enjoy things we did together. So it doesn't make me sad, it makes me grateful. I hope that makes sense. It is all a strange process to live through.
Oh gosh , yes! I think I must have lost my point in the comment, which was to affirm that the way you are living with gratitude for each other NOW makes it easier for the survivor. Wishing you both many more happy birthdays.
Yes. I can't imagine being with someone in a mutually satisfying relationship for 5 years, much less 50. Maybe I'm not built that way. We lose people and people lose us. As a single person, I worry about my dogs and my cat, and must have someone to tend to them through adoption or finding them a suitable savior, should I go suddenly. And I crate them at night, and often go into a spin of anxiety that I'll die in my sleep, and no one will notice for days that I'm gone; and that my beloved pups will be trapped without care and they will suffer, too. I'm not super old, but I'm on my way... The things we worry about, ugh. On a lighter note, my laugh out loud favorite sentence in the piece is "I never had a garden or met a plant I could not kill." I totally relate to that. If it doesn't have 4 legs and tail, I'd forget it existed. Do not give me plants. My friends know this. If by chance I receive the gift of a potted growing thing, I find someone to adopt it, and have been known to preemptively dispose of it, I'm so confident of my lack of ability. Love to you Rona and hi to Paul. Happy you have each other! xo
Nan, my favorite sentence is the one about forgetting the existence of anything without four legs and a tail. I have to ask, though: What about tripod dogs? I’ve met some gems.
A tripod dog is absolutely included in that sentence. I've met some great ones too, though too many share the name "Lucky" for my taste. I've just never had one as a member of my clan. Oh, and tailless 3 and 4 leggeds are good, too. But you got the point! Love to you. xo
This was a tough read for me Rona. I have been a widow for a little over three years. My husband died at 53 from metastatic soft tissue sarcoma, a rare cancer. He was the kindest, most loving husband and father to our then 9-year-old son. He wasn't perfect and we had our issues, but he was a damn good cook and smart as hell. Grief is not what I thought it will be. I thought I would be prepared when he died, but it was a shock. Our brains cannot process the absence of someone so integral to our daily life. It's not a cognitive impairment, although I still have some of those. I liken it to rearranging your kitchen. You know you moved the silverware from one drawer to another, but before you can even form a thought you always reach for it in the old spot. It takes a while to get used to. I laugh, I cry, I have so much to be grateful for, and I am. There is a duality in grief I could never have understood before Steven died - the things that bring me the most joy also make me sad. It isn't like two sides of the same coin, but two halves of a heart broken open. XO 🥰❤️
Amy, I am sorry for the continuing loss you describe so affectingly here. The two halves, the silverware in a different drawer… these sound like fragments of an essay I would like to read. Perhaps it already exists. No beloved spouse is perfect and all are indelible.
Such rich descriptions of your process, Amy, and offered with the kind of openness that comes from having your heart exposed to the elements. Thank you, and hugs for the parts that will always be hard.
Thank you Elizabeth for your kind words. Hugs gladly accepted, especially those for the hard parts. 🙏🥰
This is so vivid: " Our brains cannot process the absence of someone so integral to our daily life. It's not a cognitive impairment, although I still have some of those. I liken it to rearranging your kitchen. You know you moved the silverware from one drawer to another, but before you can even form a thought you always reach for it in the old spot." No comparison to an integral partner but the loss of our first service dog gutted me. I still call our new dog by his name and am surprised it is not him. They are similar but very different.
My grieve with disabled daughters is of a different nature—I don't know but I am glad you can be with yours Amy and write so eloquently about it.
From reader Zina Gomez-Liss, a beautiful piece on E.B. White's grief for his wife Katherine. It reminded her (and me) of Hall's grief for Kenyon. https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/97/08/03/lifetimes/white-katharine.html?module=inline
We all seem to be at it. On the same day that Ray and I innocently had a long conversation over lunch about life without each other, @DebbieWeil posted her piece on the issue. I then raised it with @AnneBoyd in her comments which led to further discussion. And now you, Rona, add your always worth reading thoughts. Is there something in the water ??
Actually, I think it’s something that all long married people can’t help thinking about and, where possible, planning for. Even the thinking is a kind of preparation.
Ann, the wonder is that when you’re young and even, in our case, middle-aged, you don’t think about this.
I did think about it when younger but not very often. It often comes up now, with a combination of practical things (how does the damn remote work?) and friendly explorations of what we would miss. Laughing a lot is high on the list. BUT we are both very clear that we want the other to find someone new as soon as possible).
And amusingly, when I first went to the University of Michigan in 1959, a friend (also going) was very excited that Donald Hall taught there. She immediately signed up for his class. I haven’t heard his name in 65 years.
Such a great essay, Rona, and such insightful responses! I'm glad Paul is okay. My sweet Sam, 10 years my senior, reminds me of our age gap regularly. Carpe diem, he says. Seize the fish. Stupid joke still makes me laugh every time.
Well, Moira, it’s pretty funny. Bet he has more great lines.
Thanks for making me laugh. Seize the fish!
Hi Rona, I love this post so much because I’m doing research right now on E.B. White and his wife, Katharine. I hear echoes through your reading. Personally, I am a catastrophist. And a planner. Health-wise I have it well over my husband who is riddled with corporeal griefs. However, I’m one car wreck away from demise myself. I think if death all the time because I have two disabled adult children who depend on functioning, wage earning, health insurance bearing parents. Who will provide for them when/if Jeff and I are gone?
The more you love, the deeper the loss. Grief is the price you pay for love. But love itself is a reason for living. Lately I’ve had a stretched of overburdened days, and love of my husband and children are the only things to carry me through. I can only think of Jeff’s absence while also thinking the inverse, and leaving an easier path for him (easier than my non-planning, ostrich-head-in-the-sand man has left for me—he’s a man who could never read this post—too painful and overwhelming).
I’d cope by working and planning. Research, writing, and keeping up with the kids. Now that I think of it, I should schedule time for crying.
Obviously my ways and my husband’s are so opposite. Driven in different ways for the sake of balance, perhaps? The trick after disaster is righting the boat after it’s overturned.
Oh, Zina. What a lot of corporeal and other grief for one loving soul to carry. Your project on the Whites sound fascinating. I hear there's a new biography of Katharine on the way, or perhaps already here. I love those two and detect similarities to Kenyon and Hall.
I love Kenyon’s poetry. She’s one of my favorites. When I started memorizing Mary Oliver I also chose poems by Jane Kenyon as well!
I think you will like this piece I read this morning on the Whites. Dovetails with your themes…
https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/97/08/03/lifetimes/white-katharine.html?module=inline
Just read it. Absolutely lovely and very much in the spirit of Kenyon and Hall. Thank you.
I will read it for sure. Thanks, Zina.
I loved reading this, Rona, and I shall write more later. My cousin found love unexpectedly at age 58 (her partner and husband is 75 now, and she would have turned 67 next weekend) and they had a loving, friendship filled relationship. We arrived in the UK last Sunday and we were to visit them in their new home by the sea, and she died shockingly unexpectedly the evening before we arrived. My heart breaks for him. Life is full of amazing joy and unexpected twists. A poignant reminder to love one another like crazy, ragged and authentic. I loved reading your story aloud to my beloved best friend over breakfast today.
Judy, you’re giving me shivers of sorrow and astonishment at both the marvel of late love and the vulnerability of it. I am so sorry for the loss of your cousin and friend.
Thank you, Rona
At age eighty I am living with a husband who has a diagnosis of moderate Alzheimers. Trust me there is nothing moderate about his behaviors. We have been married for fifty eight years this week , most of them full of adventures through travel, family and life. Now is a time for reflection and patience. I so appreciate your piece. Thank you for being here for your readers.
Thank you, Jane. It’s my pleasure. I wish you well and count you among friends never met.
A Very Big Subject, treated with grace (and yes, on the laughter, it's that I would miss the most.)
I try to be funny about Very Big Subjects when I can.
I could relate to the widow buying flowers. For a year after Sam died, I bought myself flowers once a week. A lot of anticipatory grief work going on here. And as always so brilliantly written.
Jill, I didn’t know about your loss of a beloved spouse, and my heart goes out to you. I doubt there’s any way to prepare oneself. I’m glad you related to my essay.
It's been 15 years since his suicide. His cancer had returned and he hid it from me; since we had no insurance (9 mo before the Affordabe Healthcare Act) as farmers and he didn't want to leave me bankrupt. The lack of anticipatory grief complicates such a sudden loss. Thank goodness for grief counseling and fabulous therapists.
Death, and what happens in the immediate after, is not an uncommon topic of conversation for me and my husband. We talk of how we want to be remembered, and how we hope to appreciate the release to new adventures for the one gone. But we can't comprehend how much it will upend us, how difficult the pain. I know my mother never really got over the loss of my father, and no matter how busy she kept herself, spent the 13 years she outlived him with a burden of loneliness she could never put down.
Thank you for a touching and beautifully-written essay today. None of us gets out of here alive, right? Best to consider what we love about living while we can.
Oh, you bet. Sigh.
First, Rona, I'm glad Paul's OK. I think about who will go first often, perhaps too much so. I'm about to turn 66 and my husband is 67, so I hope we have a good decade and a half left in us, but pesky medical conditions keep creeping up, so we take nothing for granted. Then there's that proverbial bus that may hit... In the meantime, I try to enjoy all the beauty that blooms.
As Gerard Manley Hopkins put it, "There lives the dearest freshness deep down things." Distractions keep blocking our view.
Beautiful love story in so many ways. My wife and I joke often about what life will be when the first of us goes. But behind the jokes is a looming dread. The mix of joy and sadness is the blood that runs through a life.
"Joy and woe are woven fine." So are jokes and dread. Thanks, David.
When I read the (many) wonderful essays by women writers regarding their spouses/partners and the meaningful and supportive connections they share with them, I feel a sense of longing, regret, and even envy that I do not have a wonderful mate to share life with. While I did have what I thought was a wonderful marriage for 23 years, after it unravelled 20 years ago, I have never been able to rekindle another relationship. For years I was bereft about not finding another love, but now at 71 I'm content, strong and grateful for my solo life. (I've written about it on my Substack.) In some ways I'm grateful that I am not tethered to a spouse/partner, in that I will never have to face the deep grief that comes from losing a mate. My heart goes out to widows/widowers who must suffer that loss.
The memories shared eloquently here are bittersweet for us all and must bring a special sadness to a woman in your position. Believe it or not, I've never had a solo life. I went directly from student housing with roommates to an apartment with my husband-to-be. I'm glad you've made a life that works for you as a creative explorer.
Having been part of an "Us" for 48 years, I read this with rapt attention and a deep sense of gratitude dancing with the weight of dread in my chest. Not perfect, this shared life has been wondrous and fulfilling. And someday it will be over.
Exactly. Gratitude and dread locking arms. Thank you, Kim.
Lovely essay Rona. Living with gratitude and appreciation in the present can do a lot to comfort later loss. I'm glad to hear Paul is ok. I am in my ninth year of widowhood. For me, acceptance and time have slowly returned the memories of life with Bernie to me to be enjoyed and treasured. I can enjoy good things (like the Dodgers at the World Series) by knowing we would be watching it together and he would want me I to still enjoy things we did together. So it doesn't make me sad, it makes me grateful. I hope that makes sense. It is all a strange process to live through.
Leslie, I’m grateful not to need your wisdom just yet. May it rest comfortably in a mental pocket until I do.
Oh gosh , yes! I think I must have lost my point in the comment, which was to affirm that the way you are living with gratitude for each other NOW makes it easier for the survivor. Wishing you both many more happy birthdays.