// on loss.//

ethaney:

yesterday, i read a post on joanna goddard’s blog that sort of struck a chord with me. it was on loss and if we ever have irrational thoughts about losing someone we love. i am naturally a pessimistic person and morbid thoughts aren’t foreign to me. in fact, i think about sad and depressing things more than i should. while lying in bed, trying to get my brain to shut down, it sometimes wanders into really horrible hypothetical situations. what happens if a heart attack strikes my mom at 2 in the morning and leaves her in a hospital bed with little chance? what happens if ethan is driving home from work and he gets smashed into by some stupid reckless driver or god forbid, a big rig? or what happens if the same happens to morgan and our little perfectly imperfect world as we know it, is permanently destroyed forever? what things would i remember? what things would start to fade over time? would i be able to rebuild the the parts of my life that they so abruptly vanished from? what would i miss the most? 

she introduced anne roiphe’s memoir, epilogue, which is about her late husband who passed away unexpectedly after 39 years of marriage. she included a link of a really sad yet beautiful paragraph she wrote for RS magazine. it’s things like this that makes me absolutely terrified of death and certain uncertainties. it scares me to think that i might not appreciate as much as i should, and when i do, it will be too late.

‘It was mid-December of 2005. I don’t know why he said it. I don’t know if a shadow had fallen across him, something appalling he saw out of the corner of his eye. I don’t know if it was just coincidence or intuition that prompted him, but about a week before my seemingly healthy 82-year-old husband suddenly died, he emerged from the kitchen ready to go to his office, his face clean-shaven, his eyes shining, smiling shyly, holding the copy of the Anthony Trollope book he was rereading, and said to me, “You have made me very happy. You know that you have made me a happy man.” There I stood in my work outfit, blue jeans and a T-shirt. There I stood with my white hair and my wrinkles and the face I was born with, although now much creased by time, and I felt beautiful. 

“What?” I said. I wanted him to repeat the words. “You heard me,” he said and put on his coat and drew his earmuffs out of his pocket. “Say it again,” I said. He said it again. “You’ve made me happy.” We had been married 39 years. We had held hands waiting in hospital corridors while a desperately ill child struggled to breathe and thankfully recovered. We had made financial mistakes together. We had spent hours out in fishing boats. We had raised the children and then second-guessed our choices. We had stood shoulder to shoulder at graduations and weddings and we were well-worn, but still I had made him happy, and I was proud and flushed with the warmth of his words. 
 
I know I looked beautiful that morning. Perhaps not to the young man holding his toddler in his arms who rode the elevator with me; perhaps not to the friend I met for lunch, a true believer in Botox; perhaps not to passersby on the street; but I knew it for a certainty. I was beautiful. 
 
I don’t believe that inner beauty is sufficient in this cruel world. That’s the pap one tells a child. I don’t believe that positive thinking improves your skin tone or that loving or being loved changes the shape of your nose or restores the thickness and color of hair, but I do know that there is a way of being beautiful, even as age takes its toll, that has something to do with the spirit filling with joy, something to do with the union with another human being, with the sense of having done well at something enormously important, like making happy a man who has made you happy often enough. 
 
Ten days after that morning conversation, my husband and I returned from a concert and dinner with friends and walked down our windy block toward our apartment house when suddenly he stumbled and fell and died within minutes. As I waited for the ambulance, I remembered his words, a beauty potion I would take with me into the rest of my life. ‘