George, my dear neighbor, lay stiff in the
hospital bed, the crisp sheet tightened just under his chin. Barbara says he
looks much better than hours before when he was gasping for air, his mouth wide
open, his body in distress. He’d had a stroke. I’d say an unexpected stroke,
but when do we expect a stroke? His stroke came in the morning hours of a
Tuesday just a couple of days after what Barbara describes as one of the best
weekends they’d ever had together. Museum visits. Dinners out. Temple service.
Friends galore.
Barbara and I sit on the couch-turned-bed in the
hospital room staring at George, waiting for that moment when she would have to
say goodbye to her husband of sixty-five years. We both know the moment is
inevitable, but prefer to postpone it as long as possible. “What do I do with
all the firewood that George put on our back porch? There is so much! I truly don’t
know what he was thinking.”’
“Let’s not worry about that now,” I hold her
hand. “I’m sure it’ll be put to good use.”
“His jewelry equipment!” she cries out. “It’s
very valuable. I don’t know what to do with it.” Barbara bows her head. I could
feel grief pressing around her frail frame like a vice. Just weeks from
celebrating her ninetieth birthday, I cannot imagine her surviving its painful
grip. It comes in waves, she says. For brief glimpses, she sits erect and
eager, and is chatty. And then, without warning, she folds into me, first with
her head and then collapsed shoulders until she is small like a child in my
embrace.
“We don’t have to think about that now,” I
stroke her back. “I’m sure your friend, Bill, can help you with that.” She talked
about their close friend who owns a jewelry store in town, one of the many
people who would miss George terribly.
“The Christmas cards!” Barbara yelps. “They’re
halfway done. Every year, I would sign my name and hand the card over to
George. He would then write something personal and sign his name. The pile is
halfway finished. What do I do about the cards?” Her watery eyes burrowed within
her small face stare at me, pleading for answers. The triviality of the wood,
the jewelry equipment and the cards occupy Barbara enough to distract her from that
moment in time. I prefer the talk of wood, jewelry and cards because I could
actually do something about those things.
I circumvent that moment in time
right alongside Barbara. “You can wait and decide later what to do," I offer. "Lots
of people are sending their Christmas cards later and later. Some people even
send them as Valentine’s cards.” My blabbering only leads us back to the
inevitable. George and Barbara were lovers like no other. George would have
celebrated Valentine’s Day with some poignant acknowledgement of their love. He
might have fashioned her a ring from a quarter. Or perhaps he’d leave her a tender poem on a napkin, a token she’d
carry in her pocket and share with me, most certainly. Or they’d stroll down
Craigmoor Road, a path they’d traveled as a couple, holding hands, every day
for the seventeen years we have lived across the street from them. And on
February 14, the skip in their step just a bit bouncier because it would be a
day where they’d have an excuse to celebrate their love even more. Not that
they ever needed one.
Mentioning Valentine’s Day invites the sadness
back into the room. We both turn to look at George. The social worker walks
in. She had just talked to Tricia, Barbara's daughter-in-law. Tricia is planning to head over to Barbara's house to meet her there. Isn't that great? The hint to move the process along falls like a lead balloon.
"I don't want to leave this room," she says.
"I know," I respond and pat her knee.
"Because I know what it means when I leave this room."
"Yes," I say. "I understand."
The pressure to say goodbye mounting, Barbara
shouts out from the couch-turned-bed, "Why can't I come with you, George?" Barbara asks him in the same way she would have asked to go to the store. "I want to come with you! Please don't leave me here alone!" I feel tears welling up from my insides. I
could sob right there, but stop myself, choosing instead to posture as something solid
to support Barbara. She turns to me again, her eyes looking for a reprieve from
the pain. “Do you know how he died?” she asks.
“From a stroke?” I ask.
“No,” she explains. “How he died here in this
room.”
I shrug my shoulders, still gulping back the
salty waters that pool at the back of my throat.
“I was sound asleep and woke up startled,” she begins
the story. “I don’t know what came over me, but I woke up thinking, ‘I need to
kiss George. I need to kiss George.’ So I walked over to his bed where he was
breathing very heavily. It sounded like his chest hurt. I took his face into my
hands and gave him a big kiss. My George! I love you, George!” Barbara stops to
blow her nose. I long to have a tissue of my own.
“After I kissed him, I stood back,” she
continues. “Then he took a big gasp of air, the biggest of the night, and just
died. Right then and right there after the kiss, he died. His chest stopped
moving. He was gone.”
As sad as the story is that she is telling me, I sit thinking how
perfect a death that was for George who in life would have had it no other way.
Kissing Barbara. He would take her kiss with him always. That would be the only
way for him to die, with her kiss on his lips. I drift in thought, imagining
that sacred moment when Barbara’s kiss spurred George into the ocean of
reality, the space of eternal love. I feel blessed to have witnessed their
love.
The social worker returns to the room and
encourages Barbara to get her coat. This gentle push is just the nudge Barbara
needs to stand up and walk over to George. I suggest that I go and get the car,
pull it out to the front, but the social worker asks me to stay with Barbara.
She might need someone there when she says goodbye. But being there in their sacred
space feels intrusive and awkward, like someone farting in church or watching
home movies of a couple’s lovemaking. Wrong. The social worker smiles at me,
assuring me that I need to stay so I do.
I glance away, hugging my coat, as
Barbara stands over George. “I wish I could go with you,” she sniffles. Then Barbara is quiet as she reaches over and kisses George's physical face one last time.