“You have every right in the world to be happy and enjoy your new relationship.” You will have to pardon me but, frankly, to me that’s a crock. You may well be sick and tired of me talking about “My late wife…,” or “When Joan was alive, we…” or “During Joan’s illness…,” and in some ways, I’m sick to death of boring people with articles relating to the last few years. There are just two tiny little problems with that, however. The first is that if you haven’t been through it, you can’t possibly know the depth of pain of my loss. The second is that there will be different times – weird times – when a memory suddenly floats in front of me and brings back the sense of loss.
During the closing days of WWII, one of my neighbors, Mrs. Hunt – I never did know her first name; in those days you didn’t ask your friends their mother’s first name, and Henry, a year older, was my friend – anyway, Mrs. Hunt received news that her eldest son, Harry, had been killed in a bombing raid over Germany. The little flag in the Hunt’s front window went from a blue star to a gold star. Mr. & Mrs. Hunt now joined the ranks of tens of thousands of other parents with gold stars in their windows. In hindsight, and this certainly goes back almost sixty years, I guess I remember Henry being a bit more quiet after that bit of news. I remember walking up Belmont Street and seeing that little flag in their window. I think the Hunts were the only people on the street whose son was killed in the war. The Richardson kids were a bit too young although Larry later enlisted in the Air Force. The three Larkin boys, who lived just up the street, were also much too young. So it was the Hunt family whose son paid the ultimate price. I don’t think Mrs. Hunt ever recovered from that loss. I didn’t understand that then; I almost understand it now. It’s worse when you have to bury one of your kids, but the pain of breaking up a fifty year relationship doesn’t go away easily either.
When I first met Carl Hurtig, I knew that he was one of the founders of Damon Engineering, and a member of the Class of 1948 at Northeastern University in Boston. He had given money to the University to name a building in memory of his brother, Edward, another casualty of the “war to end all wars.” Working from some pretty poor photographs, an artist friend had painted Edward’s picture. “They came to see the finished product,’ she told me. “He was supposed to go back to work in an hour. They sat here from two to four, just he and his sister, hugging, holding on to each other and crying. I finally offered them some tea and cookies. They seemed rather grateful.” The building dedication was a family affair with very few outsiders invited. When the portrait was unveiled, I thought that Edward’s grandmother was going to pass out. She was rather elderly and the shock of seeing her grandson as he might have looked just before he died hit her hard. It was at that point that I suggested to the president that he clear the area accept for the family. They stayed around the portrait, telling stories for what seemed like hours, although it was probably less than an hour. I know many of the family went back to the building after the dedicated just to see Edward’s portrait. I won’t pretend to understand the depth of their pain; it would be impossible for me to do so.
“Don’t fear death; it’s merely another chapter.” That’s what our religious leaders tell us. Of course, none of them have been there and come back so their words are just words. Yes, they have the faith to be able to say that but I don’t see too many trying to jump over before their time. I can’t get over the fact that I’ve found new happiness and yet, I’ve also lost great happiness. Is this a guilt trip on my part? Is this what comes of being half Irish? I’ve heard it said that no one can do a better guilt trip than a Jewish mother, but I’m not certain there’s one who could possibly have outdone my mother, Rose Rae St. John…she was a pro, and I guess her son inherited just a bit of it.
The new lady in my life is wonderful. She tells me how much she loves me every day. She’s warm and kind and she’s suffered a similar loss to my own, so we’ve both been down that tragic road. She’s witty, yet very quiet. She’s trying to teach me that I can enjoy my life, and I’m really giving it my best shot. She doesn’t want me to forget my wife any more than I want her to ever forget the boyfriend she lost to the same disease. I’m trying desperately to remember Wayne Dyer’s opening lines in “Your Erroneous Zones;” Dyer wrote, ”Look over your shoulder; you have a constant companion. For want of a better name, call it your own death. You can keeping looking over your shoulder and death will catch up with you quickly, or you can move ahead with your life in which case, death will take a longer time to overtake you.” I’m not certain those are the exact words but it’s close enough. It’s difficult not to look over your shoulder when you know someone is waiting for you “on the other side,” at least if you believe as I do. On this side, however, there are still some pretty damned good things going on. My guilt is halved by the goodness and love I’m feeling here, and the feeling that I shouldn’t be enjoying the goodness and love.
When I try to explain my conundrum to others, some tell me I’m an idiot and to enjoy what I now have. Others, mostly those who have had a similar experience, frown and say something to the effect that they had never thought about it that way, “but thanks for telling me that you son-of-a-bitch,” and they’re right. I have no right to cast a guilt trip on others. In my heart of hearts, however, it’s rather nice to share the guilt.
Dick Bishop
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