A motel room in Provincetown with a view of Cape Cod Bay.

John: I thought we’d have it out here. You know Bette’s 65th birthday is tomorrow. I know you know(Oh how I know you know). Her absence is bringing so much doubt to bear on why I’m even here but I thought of all the memory and the fact that it was our first getaway and we bought a small drawing of two cats on the shore looking toward the horizon and our feeling of having so much to look forward to and we did. As you know we loved Provincetown and though we met in our late forties we wondered at the strong possibility of our paths crossing on Commercial Street when we were in our teens. If it was true wouldn’t that be something. And I thought in coming to one of our favorite places she might deign to weigh in on your magnetism. Yeah Grief you do have that going for you or should I say death has that going for it and you were drawn immediately to my person. Anything to say?

Grief: silence

John: It took a lot to come here and If I thought after eight months with you it might be a little easier boy, I was mistaken. How did you deal with the screams, the many pull-overs because of the tears, the bruised hands from hitting the steering wheel, the utter fatigue and only half way through the trip, the stop at the diner and the waitress who looked like Bette and my wanting to gently take hold of her wrist and ask her to sit with me for just a moment and she doesn’t have to say anything. It all comes natural to you. This is just what you do, I guess; is that right?

Grief: silence

John: They are talking rain, maybe a thunder storm. That would be like my Bette to distract me with a storm. I wonder how the dreams will go tonight. For quite a while I’ve dreamt of situations where I feel helpless. I guess all they are doing is reflecting my life. One dream that impressed me was my standing at the edge of a desert and letting out some powerful screams but the last one takes me to the sand in a paroxysm of dry coughing. I feel the need to continue shouting your name but unable I wait for the tears to fill my mouth and with enough to swallow able to let out one more that I pray you will hear. I wonder if you feel helpless also in entering my dream world? I will say that before going to sleep Grief and I offer up a prayer and hope you will visit and raise a little of that veil between us. I believe Grief tries to work with me when possible and I’m grateful.

Grief: Silence

John: I imagine Bette has asked you to give me a break and not break me. I can hear her saying that with a nod to our past of one-liners. I suspect you ignore her. You are mad aren’t you Grief? I know you find yourself in a place you don’t want to be. My God, how do you think I feel.

Grief: Silence

John: It’s okay to be mad you know. She left the stage with little warning. I think you probably feel like some ill-prepared understudy. I don’t make it easy. I don’t leave the stage. You have to be here. There are times you are left speechless. It will not do you any good to improvise. I am not on board with that. I do not like your feeble attempts to leave the stage when I seem distracted. And then out of a sense of remorse you go center stage and fall into a heap. I know it scares you and me too when the lights go out and the edge of stage front is out of sight. There are some blankets off stage you could get to make us a little comfortable. You refuse to do that and I lack the energy to coerce you. The lights come up and it is on you to present some aspect of her I can respond to at that particular breath, breaths, moment, moments. It may happen, it may not but for now and now is eight months you find yourself at various spots on the stage floor waiting for some direction which I am unwilling or unable to give. They say if you become ‘complicated’ I will have to hire a stage manager; we will see about that. How does that sit with you?

Grief: Silence

John: You know if you don’t mind, well even if you do I don’t care I am going to stroke your ego anyway. You Grief wield a lot of power; hell you almost had me killed before we got to know one another. Five heart pills and I am out of here. Your attempt to legislate that had Bette vetoing and, though mixed feelings, I thank her for that. Yeah you scare me with your ability to interrupt any of the few things I do and leave me numb, mute, tearful, shaken, accepting a memory and rejecting it same instant, crestfallen over some of Enya and Tammy’s endearing behaviors that Bette would always lovingly comment on, failing time and again to find a thread of peace in the fabric of Bette’s leave-taking and in bed calling it a day whatever time of day it may be. You of course know how paralyzing our relationship has become.

Grief: Silence

John: It was quite a storm; the lightening and thunder could not have been better choreographed. Bubala’s is across the street from where I am standing. I am hungry. The host comes up to me “one?” “yes” He seemed surprised when I asked for another table away from the bay window. Oh how you loved the view. I only ordered a third of what I would have if you were with me sweetheart. Grief has not only commandeered my mind but body also. The afternoon I will spend at Race Point Beach. That is where we first realized what we had. It makes sense the ocean there will be our final resting place. The evening will be back in the room and reflect on the closest I have come to you since we were parted. I hope in spite of Grief it will get easier because I so miss you and what time I have left on this earth I want to spend it in the full grateful memory of you and not avoiding the woman when I met who gave me so much when I thought I needed so little.

Grief: Silence

Love To You All

We liked to talk about the hypothetical and an elderly man losing his wife who was his best friend of eighteen years would have us going back and forth as to the sadness and consequences of such a scenario. I know uppermost in Bette’s mind would be his loneliness and who is he talking to now? We would be grateful if he had friends but I would posit he is without a person he talks to on a daily basis.  You would say, “How sad. I would go bonkers if I didn’t have you to talk to.” I agree. Bette says, “I wonder how he copes with such a seismic shift in his daily living” and I say, “I can’t imagine.” I get up and kiss Bette on her forehead and ask if Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell are good for dinner making music and she says, “you have to ask?” During dinner she looks at me and says, “Does he get out much?” I suggest, “Maybe not enough. His energy level is low.” and she says, “That is not acceptable-entropy is to be struggled against.” I said, “I can see him going to bed real early like 6pm and all for human contact in his dreams. His holy grail is to dream the dream of her coming back to him and continuing where they left off.” That upsets you and we stop talking about the hypothetical man and instead talk about the current books we are reading. Later in bed Bette says, “How does he deal with not being able to hold onto dreams and how can that be a viable substitute for human interaction?” I’m feeling tired and considered saying I don’t know we can pick this up tomorrow but I heard something in Bette’s voice that cautioned me to not let this go until tomorrow and so I said, “Maybe he writes them down as soon as he gets the chance and during the day reflects and tries hard to bring the dream fragments together to make sense of the dream if that was the case because some of the dreams may be focused and provide the needed sense of belonging.” Dearest Bette would take issue and remind me that ‘belonging’ involves others and ones dreams should not qualify and if the hypothetical elderly man believes they do he is sadly mistaken.” “So he need go out and make friends but what if he fails time and again for any number of reasons.”, I said. Bette says, “If he is not a member of a church-he should be after all religion is all about belonging; yes that is what he should do.” I said, “I agree but he has to conquer that inertia, don’t you think Bette?” Bette said, “Of course you’re right. I’m sure the grief over his wife must be bringing about such depression and an unwillingness to venture forth. I wonder what he does with his time?” I intimated, “He goes to bed and stares at the ceiling and cries in the remembering.” Bette said, “Let’s hope he has a pet; a dog would be nice don’t you think?” I told Bette, “I agree but I suspect his wife loved cats and with her passing the connection he feels toward them is stronger then ever.” “That is romantic and melancholy. If you don’t mind I’d rather him have a dog and if he were the one to pass then she has the cats; I like the look of that better. Do you agree?”, Bette asked. “I do totally”, I said. I could tell Bette was getting sleepy so I thought a recap would be in order: “He is sick with grief, goes through many a day without speaking, needs a friend, looks for refuge in dreams, doesn’t do much with his time, has a pet dog…” “No more John, please.” “Sorry love it is a bit much.” “Bit?” “Okay hon we need to get some sleep, okay?” “Okay. Who started this by the way?” “I think I did Bette, sorry” “No need to apologize; it’s just so damn sad.” “Duh.” “You know I’m thinking about you and how you’d be without me.” “You mean like you’re on a vacation without me?” “You must be getting tired; you’re going silly on me.” “You know I don’t think about life without you. I can’t. Just the thought really hurts. And when we lose somebody and the thought comes back to me I become Saint Michael and slay that thought for all its worth. I become a boy and embrace the irrational wanting us to go on forever.” “I have a cancellation tomorrow early afternoon; I’ll gladly fit you in.” “Who’s being silly now Bette?” “Okay John let us let the hypothetical man rest also.” That works for me love. Good night.” “Good night John-boy.” “Saw that coming.” “How did you sleep Bette?” “Good John and the old man?” “I’m sure he’s checking his dream notes now and doing his best to piece them together. The usual?” “By that you mean cottage cheese and fruit, waffles with maple syrup and coffee? Yes love thanks.” “Is Beethoven’s sixth symphony okay?” “Perfect. It seems every time we play that piece the mood is set for a good day-even the storm section is a delight.” “I know. I wonder if the old man listens to music? I’ll say yes. You good with that?” “Of course. What’s his name by the way?” “I don’t know if I want to give him a name.” “Yeah  I understand. It kind of fits his not having a name after all he doesn’t have much of a life.” “Oh Bette that is such an ouch. He didn’t deserve that. What if his pain really gets him down and he starts to think about dying to be with her.” “Sorry about that, John. I get angry when it’s so difficult to help someone but I’m working on it, trust me “That’s okay love. What can we do? All the motivation has to come from within. All we can do is hope and pray he will wake up one morning and have even a little something to look forward to.” “I have to say John, in light of what we know about his love for his wife and the terrible grief he is going through that seems to be a tall order.” You know love we’re not even talking about a reason for living because, and I think you’ll agree, he has none.” “Yet he is alive. I have to confess John, I have thought about life without you and what kind of life would that be and how could I go on. Please don’t put me in that position.” “So you’ll take death over grief and leave me in that position?” “Cowardly, I know but after falling in love with you and asking no more of life what is left me with your being gone.” “Oh dear sweet Bette, you don’t think I feel the same way?” “Listen to us John. We’re forgetting about the old man and what he needs.” “I know, how selfish. I wish I had a clue as to what he needs to make each day just a little bit easier.” “How was your breakfast love?” “Good, very good sweetheart.” “Of course all I did was toast the waffles.” “But it’s all about the toaster setting and it was perfect.” “You’re too kind. You see, how is it possible I could go on without you; my one and only?” Bette reached over and moved John’s coffee cup a little to his right and reaching for his hand placed it in hers. She looked into his eyes, smiled and said, “Acceptance my love, acceptance.”

Love To You All

I love how you called me from the hospital when having trouble sleeping and we talked for a little bit. You were sorry for waking me, if I was asleep, and I told you how good it was to hear your voice and to call me anytime. Before hanging up I verified your order from the donut shop and you laughed, saying ‘same as usual’. I said I would see you in a few hours and we were glad of that.

In the nine months your body suffered such hardship but your optimism in a good outcome never wavered. I know when I walked into your hospital room and saw you smile any feeling of melancholy I had evaporated. Whenever you had to leave your room for a scan or a scope the staff in charge of your transport wheeled you back into the room with a smile on their face and I know you said a thing or two that cracked them up. The humor gave such hope and not just me.

I try to avoid the thought but after eight months of Grief I sometimes wish I wasn’t alone in your passing.

I imagine you knowing and doing everything you can to comfort me because you know when you die I will be a complete wreck!

We have time to comprehend and talk about what is happening to us and you saying ‘wait a minute, what is this “us” thing; I’m the one dying here.’ And I say ‘well I have the grief’ and you say ‘wanna swap’ and we cry.

I ask you for thoughts you would never want me to forget and you share them over the course of time we have together and I write them down to be treasured till the day I die.

It wasn’t to be and I realize how selfish of me and no amount of solace would be worth the anxiety of you knowing your time is short.

So my love thank you for leaving unawares and understand that no final words could measure up to the memory of our love and that is how I’m surviving.

Love To You All

“Hi sis”

“Hey bro”

“Whats up?”

“Sent you an email”

“Oh?”

“You know Beckett?”

“Sure, Saint Thomas Becket. I read the Jean Anouilh play and loved it and the Burton O’Toole movie is very good and Becket’s willingness to suffer for his faith made quite an impression. Why?”

“Samuel Beckett”

“Oh, him“

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“The teacher assigned us ‘Waiting for Godot” high school senior English. That night I got about halfway through it and stopped. I told the teacher I couldn’t finish it because it was provoking anxiety. He was an older guy and said ‘Maybe in a few years’ and that was it.”

“Cool. I wish it could have been that easy for me.”

“You were assigned that?”

“No. I didn’t know about Beckett’s plays till later in life and to be honest the little I heard I didn’t think I’d be interested. I meant cool way of getting out of an assignment.”

“The play upset me. I haven’t gone back to it. I even said no to a couple free tickets for the Robin Williams, Steve Martin production. And you know how much I like them. So whats the email?”

“One of my math students came to me with words of Beckett and asked if we could talk about the logic behind them and after reading them I said yes; it will be an interesting project. She wasn’t sure what book they came from. Later that night I thought of you and finding some meaning to them that could be helpful.”

“I see. You send the email?”

“I did.”

“Okay. I will read them. How many?”

“Only one email”

“No, I mean how many words?”

Oh, 167. You want me to find what book they came from?”

“No, that’s okay, if I’m interested I shouldn’t have a problem. Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. I just wanted to get that to you quickly.”

“You know its been less then 24 hours since we last talked; not to say there is a problem with that. I love you and glad to talk to you anytime.”

“I’m sorry. Ever since you brought up the ideation I worry.”

“I told you worry if I bring up the plan. Okay”

“Okay. Give me a call tomorrow and tell me what you think of the 167 words.”

“I will, love ya.”

“Love ya too.”

John’s sister Pat worries about him. His wife Bette passed away close to eight months ago. John is sixty four years old and Pat has asked him about his future. She feels he is holding back. At one point he said “Hey sis I’m not sure how much I’m interested and let’s leave it at that” So now he has these 167 words and wonders how much import to give them. John found them to resonate and for obvious and not so obvious reasons. He does find it curious that Beckett has come back to kinda haunt him via sister Pat and her math student. He put the last few words into the computer with the name Beckett and the search came up with the novel called “The Unnamable”. Later he purchased it online.

“Hey bro, interesting don’t you think? Did you find the book “

“I did. I should have it in a couple days.”

“Glad to hear that. In light of what you told me you’re not worried about the bum giving you anxiety?”

“No as a matter a fact, the way I feel now, anxiety with a dash of hope is maybe what I need. If I’m okay with this book I”m considering reading others-hell maybe I will read his complete oeuvre. A little something for the future.”

“I like the logic of that.”

“How did that go?”

“We’re still working on it.”

The following week John got a delivery and in the boxes were the complete works of Samuel Beckett. As far as Pat knew John hadn’t finished the book but considered the gamble worth the expense. It paid off; he plans on continuing the reading. Pat is no fool and understands grief has its own agenda. She knows the reading could stop. She knows it might just be a detour but she is holding fast to her faith and doesn’t believe coincidence in regards to her math student named Bette with an ‘e’.

This is the email Pat sent John​

You must go on, that’s all I know.

They’re going to stop, I know that well:  I can feel it.  They’re going to abandon me. It will be the silence, for a moment (a good few moments). Or it will be mine? The lasting one, that didn’t last, that still lasts?  It will be I?

You must go on.            I can’t go on.            You must go on.

I’ll go on. You must say words, as long as there are any – until they find me, until they say me. (Strange pain, strange sin!) You must go on. Perhaps it’s done already. Perhaps they have said me already. Perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story. (That would surprise me, if it opens.)

It will be I? It will be the silence, where I am? I don’t know, I’ll never know: in the silence you don’t know.

You must go on.            I can’t go on.            I’ll go on.

Love To You All

I have written about the pain of remembering Bette. The sad truth is I want to remember and to neglect that process will only lead to more hurt which I am not in any need of. I must accept sorrow as an element of memory. I woke up with this thought and I thanked her.

After parking the car I waited for awhile and remembered.

“Thanks for letting me off here. I’ll order our coffees when I get in and…”

“Same as usual.”

“You got it.”

I got out and went around to open her door.

“Such a gentleman, thanks love.”

I am walking in and see her, in our favorite booth, with newspaper in hand and a smile.

“So how are things going with the novel?”

“Ah, come on Bette; like you don’t know.”

“We’re having breakfast out and when we do you always have a new development to share knowing my Belgian waffle and bacon will vie less for my attention than your brilliant new character or a surprising nuance in an old one.”

“Okay consider it a ‘yes’ to whatever request you make.”

“Oh John that hurts; you’re thinking I have a hidden agenda.”

We had so much fun with our little repartees.

I walk into the restaurant and sit at the counter with a view of our booth. It  happens no one  is there which makes the eavesdropping that much easier.

She’s telling me about a news story she just read and I listen with interest telling her it may also be covered on tonights news.  Bette loved watching the news; local and national. She folded the paper and took it over to the counter so others could read it.

“That waffle is almost gone.”

“I was hungry”

“After breakfast the usual?”

“Yeah, the river, the stop and shop and home.”

“Looking forward to Mahler at Yale this Saturday?”

“I am, very much.”

The little Cromwell restaurant where we often had breakfast wasn’t far from the Connecticut River and it was a wonderful denouement to many a morning.

The last concert Bette and I attended was Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony at Yale’s Woolsey Hall. Bette was surprised how much she liked it.

“But don’t take away my Doo Wop and Motown.”

“Not in a million years”

“Good. Mahler’s music is powerful.”

“It is. And we’ll have to keep a lookout for his Eighth Symphony. I’m sure you will love that as well.”

“Find it and I’m all yours.”

“Thank God for that!”

Love To You All

Your comment on “The Bell Tolls…” touched me profoundly. As I know you know it is about dark thoughts receiving light and my less stumbling about.

Your concern got me thinking about others who care for me and may worry.

A note regarding our precious cats.

When Bette and I lost Sammy to cat heaven we didn’t think it fair for Greylock to be without a companion so Enya came into our world. When we lost Greylock to cat heaven we didn’t think it fair for Enya to be without a companion so Tammy came into our world.

I have found creativity to be my companion. It is there helping me cope when expression of my Grief needs more than tears and silence.

As you know I have been writing off and on for years and creativity via the muse did come and visit.

But now it has unpacked its bags, taken a room and bunks with Grief.

The times Grief needs to share its sorrow and pain creativity is there.

We have Shakespeare being creative in giving us Hamlet’s consideration of suicide.