Citizen Journal: New path, ghost, appear amid loss
Abruptly, at 2:30 a.m. near my bed, an apparition glowed white with dark hair. “Lisa, what is it? What’s wrong?” Then I realized my daughter wasn’t spending the night. The figure disappeared. Several times I repeated aloud, “I don’t believe in ghosts.” Picking up a book to read a chapter helped clear my mind. I need a logical explanation for everything, but one eludes me.
Like the protagonist in “Citizen Vince,” I began an inventory of all the dead people I have known; none was my ghost. My first, my great grandfather, died when I was just 4, having no concept of death. In my 30s, returning from Africa, visiting Seattle, I tried to call my ex-college roommate. She had been carried off by a virulent flu. I thought, “She is too young to die.” That’s when I became aware that death comes to everyone, soon or late.
My handsome eldest son died when only 23. Our best friends lost their daughter near her 40th birthday. My loving sister died close to her 50th. My stepfather was only 56 when his heart gave out. My husband Tom’s lungs collapsed and he lost his struggle to survive when he was 82. In my mind, they were all too young to go. Somehow, we, the living, withstand these losses. We limp along numbly with an empty aching heart.
When my son died, I thought losing a child is the worst that could happen. Neither Tom nor I could sleep for two weeks afterward. But my friend who lost her daughter warned me, it’s not the very worst. Now I know the worst: losing a mate.
Joan Didion wrote in “The Year of Magical Thinking” that her husband died but she kept feeling he would come back to her. My magical thinking consisted of believing I could keep Tom alive through TLC and the miracles of modern medicine.
After 60 years of marriage, we were a unit – finishing each other’s sentences. If I couldn’t remember a name, I gave Tom a key idea or first name; he finished it for me. When we were newlyweds, Tom became irritated if I finished a sentence or stepped on his idea, but over time we appreciated memory prompts and relied upon each other so much that widowhood feels like losing a limb.
When we visited a friend whose wife became mentally challenged before he actually lost her, he said, “What I miss most is not being able to share the treasured memories of our past.” That will be my Waterloo. I have to find a way to nurture my reminiscences without turning to Tom and smiling. While staying in Phoenix with our cousins who visited often over the years, we recalled many happy events from our past. It was warm and therapeutic.
Joyce Carol Oates wrote about her experience of widowhood. I ordered the book to gain insight into my own plight. She was surprised to lose her seemingly healthy husband; I had nursed mine for nearly a year. Hers had sheltered her, leaving her feeling helpless; I had taken over many of the chores that Tom performed, and become stronger as a result. We both needed help from little pills to sleep. Her experience is similar but different from mine, though suffering the same loss.
A Hospice Bereavement Guide says each person’s “grief is unique … (we) grieve in our own way … Sometimes, (life) can become so complicated that grief is postponed.” It cautions that “grief is patient it will wait for you.”
Leaving for California after Christmas, I escaped the drudgery of housework, the gloom of winter, and overwhelming paperwork that came from losing Tom.
Living in a residential hotel, I learned to take a proactive role, getting out to museums and movies. I found I did not have to be constantly entertained, I could enjoy quiet times alone. I discovered that I can go into a restaurant and appreciate a nice meal by myself; or reach out to others. Survive. For the first time in my life, I am learning who I am, in the company of my friendly ghost.