"Gimme a break, he's 91 years old!"
This was my initial reaction when the elderly lady across from me in the hospital waiting room told me that her husband was dying. No sooner had I conjured that thought than was I ashamed of myself.
There were only three of us in the hospital waiting room which could have accommodated about twelve people when full. There were signs plastered all over the hospital about COVID-19 and maintaining social distancing, yet there was absolutely nothing in the room to enforce any such separation. Chairs were still packed tightly together. The elderly lady was in a wheelchair with a younger woman standing beside her. For a place full of the ill and the infirm, the waiting room was a surprisingly unfriendly place for persons with disabilities. The only space for a wheelchair was immediately to the left of the door. I was seated immediately to the right of the door, meaning that there was only one door width between me and the elderly lady, about one metre. So much for social distancing! I suppose I could have relocated after they entered the room but that would have been rude. When does social distancing become social rudeness?
The elderly lady was teary-eyed. The young woman who had pushed her into the room was stoic and silent. Any tears she had shed had long since been wiped from her face.
I gently asked the elderly lady, "Who are you here to see?"
She replied, "My husband was brought in today; he's not doing very well."
I scrutinized the couple's facial features and their eyes in particular. Both were blue-eyed; a mother and her daughter, I thought. Yes, that was it. So the younger woman's father was in the hospital. She was not in the mood for conversation though.
I asked the elderly lady, "How long have you been married?"
She replied, "67 years."
I was jealous. I would have loved 67 years of marriage. She looked so pitiful that I somehow found compassion. I could have stopped talking right there, but I forced myself to be caring and gracious, traits that don't always come naturally to me.
Trying to establish a bond, I shared a little about myself, "I recently lost my wife of 30 years."
She did not reply. People never know what to say. I didn't tell her that my wife died from brain cancer, nor that it was less than four months ago. I tried to find some words to comfort her; I think that I now know what to say.
"Losing a husband or wife after so many years, it's like losing a piece of your body, a part of your soul", I consoled her. She just nodded without saying anything.
"How old is he?" I asked.
"91 years", she replied. Well, you already know what my initial reaction to that was! Feeling jealous of her long marriage was petty of me.
I lost my father, Doug, less than two years ago. We were close and he is one of the reasons I moved back from the USA to Australia after living overseas for twenty years. I wanted to spend time with him in his twilight years, and I did. We went on father-son trips reminiscent of my childhood, except this time I was in the driver's seat and organizing our adventures, whether four-wheel driving through the Australian outback, flying over Lake Eyre flooding for the first time in half a century, sailing to Kangaroo Island, going wine tasting together, or just riding on my ride-on mower, which he loved. So I grieved for my father as any child who is close to their parent would. He died at the ripe old age of 90 though and was fully capable until the very end. It was a very good innings. On the other hand, my darling wife, Susie, was only 59 when she died. Her death hit me like a tsunami, and four months has barely softened the pain. I just keep thinking that Susie's death is so unfair and so untimely. As I mulled over my loss, I sensed that I was starting to spiral into a well-traveled quagmire of self-pity. I forced myself back to the present, and the elderly lady. Today she needed attention, not me.
"Was it sudden?" I asked her.
"No, he's been suffering dementia for a few years now. He hasn't recognized me for quite some time", she replied. She added, "They say he doesn't have long."
A silly thought popped into my mind, "I just want to grow old enough with someone so that we both get dementia at exactly the same time." It was a lie though. Certainly, I expected that Susie and I would grow old together, like the elderly lady and her husband. That is the natural order of things; that is to be expected. Then, when we were suitably ancient, one of us would start to become decrepit, physically, or mentally. One person would then care for the other, hopefully for only a mercifully short period and with the assistance of our children. One person always goes before the other, unless you are Romeo and Juliet. One person must bear the loss of the other.
Perhaps losing someone after 67 years, is twice as painful as losing someone after 30 years. I will never know. I do think that pain is a function of loss and loss is a function of love. In other words, the deeper your love, the deeper your loss. I don't think it is a function of years.
A nurse walked through the door and announced to the elderly lady, "We're ready to take you to him now."
A gentle "Bye" was all I could muster. I never saw the elderly lady again. I secretly hoped that the elderly lady's husband would recognize her one last time.
"Susie", Susan Elaine Myers (17 March 1960 ~ 12 February 2020).
Father and son at Islander Estate Vineyards, Kangaroo Island.
Douglas Charles Noble (17 August 1928 ~ 7 November 2018).
[Originally published in The Writers and Readers Magazine, June 2020.]