Gathering

A clear blue October day,
Soft white clouds and a few palm trees accent the horizon,
slightly cooler than the day years ago
when they buried her son here.
He remains toward the top of the hill where the smells from the stables dissipate,
Far enough to minimize the freeway noise and exhaust.
Still and beautiful,
Quiet
Green
With a view of the city he loved.

She arrives faithfully,
Trudging along the path,
Age and arthritis slowing her progress,
Determination and devotion moving her forward.
Her skin is soft,
the bones in her hands increasingly pronounced.
She carefully places a rock on his marker,
Beloved Husband, Father, Son and Friend.

When the children used to visit,
They ran up the grassy hill,
Plopped down on a picnic blanket,
Sometimes threw their rocks.
They rarely come now,
days and hearts full with work and sport and social lives.
She rests on a stone bench in the shade
Close by.
She tells him that his sons are growing into strong, young men.
That they have two step-brothers.
That they are good boys, all of them.
That their mother is well
And their step-father is kind.
She smiles.
“We will have brunch on Sunday.”
Looking forward to seeing her family.

She offers her prayer,
Forgiveness.
Her heart whispers,
Grateful for the time together.
Thank you.

Infatuation

The last night of Sam’s life was one of the strangest of mine. I knew about his chronic back pain, but I didn’t know about the crippling despair. I knew about the job stress, but not the intensity of his shame. The pieces only made sense in retrospect. And by the time I put them together, of course, it was too late.

The night before Sam died, I found our Wills and Trust sitting out on the counter. It didn’t strike me as odd because I was a practicing trusts and estates attorney, and I had been thinking about revising our estate plan. We had had a second child since we originally executed those documents, and I wanted to update our Wills and Trust to include both boys by name (as opposed to “our son Michael and any other children we might have”). So when I noticed the binder of documents on the counter, I said to my husband “Oh good. I’ve been meaning to get those out so I can revise them.” He said not a word. After the fact, I realized that butthead had been reading our Trust to make sure that the boys and I would be covered even if he left our estate plan alone.

Out of the blue, he said, “Jim Wilson was a smart guy.” I can picture exactly where I was standing in the kitchen at the island when I threw up my hands and replied emphatically, “Jim was an idiot! He left a wife and two kids.” Jim was in our law school class, and he was, in fact, a very smart guy. Before attending law school, he had graduated from medical school, so he consistently ruined the curve. We would have hated him, if he had not also been such a nice guy. But somehow he lost his way. Several years after we all graduated, Jim committed suicide by jumping off the parking structure at his office, leaving his wife and two young children. Only later did I realize that what Sam meant was that Jim knew how to get the job done. More women attempt suicide, but more men die from it. Sam had his heart set on it.

That same night, Sam said, “I’m so sorry I failed you.” Again, I heard his words, but I didn’t understand his intention. I responded unequivocally, “Failed me?! What are you talking about? What part of this was failure? We have each other, we have two gorgeous kids, we even have a ridiculously cute little black dog and a white picket fence!” But Sam didn’t hear me either. As I replayed that conversation in the hours and days immediately following his death, I realized he hadn’t heard my answer because he wasn’t trying to apologize. He was trying to say goodbye.

Our conversation seemed so peculiar. We spoke in that shorthand that couples use when they’ve been married a long time, but we weren’t understanding each other. He was preoccupied and distant. I intuited that something was wrong, but I couldn’t wrap my head around what it might be. I began to fear that maybe he was having an affair. It was the worst thing I could think of. I didn’t know he was flirting with his own mortality. Late that evening, I looked him in the eye and asked the question that terrified me, “Are you sure you’re not having an affair?” It didn’t occur to me that he might be suicidal. “Oh Charlotte,” he said, looking at me with tenderness and shaking his head. “No. I would never.”

He wasn’t so much tugging on a lifeline as he was pulling a ripcord.

Sam never came to bed that night. I have often wondered whether if he had slept – even just a few hours – things would have looked brighter in the morning. The sun rose on a new day, but he had already checked out, seduced by the promise of a better place.

In retrospect, it appears obvious. At the time, I missed the signs completely. We couldn’t connect because we were operating from two different levels.

When the boys and I left the house the next morning to go to the little one’s soccer game, Sam stayed home to take a nap. I learned later that he literally raced out of the driveway and down the street, uncharacteristically erratic behavior for a man who was protective of pedestrians and the local children. He was a man consumed by a passion.

I don’t know if I could have stopped him, or if he even would have slowed down long enough to take a nap or take a breath. The attraction was too strong. He had completely disengaged, inspired by the hope that Death would take him.

I believe that the allure of suicide came upon him suddenly and beguiled him with a promise to end his pain, both physical and emotional. I believe that he acted quickly in order to keep me from stopping him.

I returned home later that day, anxious because I hadn’t been able to reach Sam. I arrived to find a police car in front of my house, lights flashing silently. Two uniformed police and a priest waited for me in my driveway. Sam’s silence and his words clicked into place: I’m so sorry I failed you. Jim was a smart guy. Oh Charlotte, No. Suddenly, the pieces fit together in a way that I didn’t want to believe.

I have certainly berated myself plenty for having missed the clues. And I’ve beaten Sam up, too, for dropping hints and then leaving me, for betraying our trust and abandoning our children. I have – over years filled with therapy, long walks, reflection, Pinot Noir and dark chocolate – come to terms with the limits of my own power to save anyone other than myself. Although sometimes I fail her, too.

I will confess that it was a comfort to know that Sam was enchanted by a mistress whose name was Death, instead of, say, Dahlia. I do not know that I would have handled that well. After all, Death will have the last dance with each of us in this life. I hope She has been kind to Sam.

***

Wishing you light and strength on your healing path. And understanding.