by Sally Quinn
* * *
It was Thursday, September 11, 2014. Ben would be dead in a little over a month, but I couldn’t have predicted that. We were moving forward with life as usual, our new normal. Ben was tired but in a good mood. He was always happy to see his doctor, Michael Newman, and we had a jovial conversation with him about Ben’s overall health. Ben said he was slowing down but felt fine. Michael asked the nurse to take Ben for a blood test. When he left, Michael shut the door and sat down.
“I’m putting Ben in hospice care,” he said.
“I’m sorry?” Clearly I hadn’t heard him correctly.
“I’m putting him in hospice care.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. “He’s not dying. He’s healthy as a horse. There’s nothing medically wrong with him. He sleeps a lot and is confused, but the geriatric psychiatrist said he could live for five more years.”
“I know,” said Michael quietly. He was not just Ben’s doctor. He was mine and Quinn’s as well. He was also a close friend. We spoke shorthand. He was always honest with me, and beyond empathetic. He loved Ben too. We just looked at each other.
“How much time does he have?” I asked finally.
“Maybe four months but I doubt it,” he said. “Probably two.”
“But, Michael, how do you know? What are the signs?”
“I just know,” he said. “I’ve been doing this a long time.”
I was in such shock that I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t take it in. Here was my husband I loved so much, joking and laughing with Michael just a minute ago and now he would be gone in two months? I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea. Michael picked up the phone and called the head of hospice and arranged for his favorite nurse, Vallerie Martin, to come to our house to meet Ben that week. I sat there like a zombie. The nurse brought Ben back into the room, all smiles. Michael explained that he was going to send a nurse over to the house once a week to see him, so he wouldn’t have to be constantly coming downtown to the office. Ben didn’t seem to think anything of it. Neither of us mentioned hospice. When we left, as we were waiting for the elevator, I put my arms around Ben and hugged him as hard as I could.
Our usual exchange took on an even greater meaning: “I love you, Ben.”
“Me too, babe.”
* * *
A few days later, I received a letter from Oak Hill Cemetery, which is at the top of our hill in Georgetown on R Street at Thirtieth. Ben and I had bought a plot there some years earlier. The cemetery is a “garden cemetery,” one of the most beautiful in the country. At the time the only available plot was down the hill in a sort of gulch right on the road, which I found depressing. However, we bought it because we wanted to get grandfathered in. We could upgrade later.
The letter said Oak Hill was trying to create more space and had decided to sell eight plots for mausoleums along the small road that ran behind the entrance garden. Would I be interested? I would. The coincidence of the timing was astonishing. Although, as I understand the universe, I now know better than to call a gift like this a coincidence. Caroline Casey had taught me the term synchronicity, or meaningful coincidence. She always told me to watch for periods of increased synchronicity—these periods, she said, are when the magic happens.
I made an appointment to meet with the superintendent of the cemetery on that Thursday, September 18, in the afternoon. I had already agreed to do an interview at midday with Brian Lamb of C-SPAN. It was to be a wide-ranging conversation about On Faith, how the website was doing, and my life in general.
I had only told a few close friends that Ben was in hospice care—clearly still not really knowing what it meant. He wasn’t sick. He was confused and slept a lot, but he still knew us all. He was still Ben.
Brian began the interview by asking questions in general, but at some point he asked me how Ben was doing. By that time our friends and many of his old colleagues knew that Ben had dementia, but that was the extent of it. I remember starting to talk about Ben and having an out-of-body experience. It wasn’t me talking. There was this person sitting in a chair and I was floating above her listening to her tell Brian, very calmly, solemnly but not emotionally, that her husband was dying and had been put under hospice care. She clearly had no qualms about what she was saying. She was very matter-of-fact. She talked about how taking care of him was a spiritual experience. I nodded to myself. She was right. I hadn’t thought of it that way. I hadn’t thought of it any way except that taking care of him was what I was meant to do, what I was called to do, what I had to do, but mostly what I really wanted to do more than anything in the world. Taking care of Ben was sacred. She kept talking. I agreed with everything she said; she said it better than I could have. Where was she finding the words? It felt like a stream of consciousness, as if she had to tell this, had to get it out, had to let people know.
When the interview was over and Brian thanked her, I came back into myself. I had no feeling at all. I got up to leave. Several of the producers came up with tears in their eyes to tell me how moving the interview was, but I didn’t remember what had been said. I managed to sleepwalk my way out of there and get home. I needed to see Ben, to reassure myself that he was still there.
Then I went to the cemetery and chose a plot that was in the front for a mausoleum. It didn’t occur to me then, in the state I was in, that anyone, much less Ben, would ever be in it. It just gave me a sense of comfort knowing it was there.
* * *
Ben’s hospice nurse, Vallerie, began visiting regularly. Ben still had no idea she was a hospice nurse. Or maybe he did. He had no idea I was planning his funeral. Or maybe he did. She and I discussed the fact that we had not talked about death. We decided that he didn’t want to. He hadn’t asked Michael Newman or Vallerie or me a single question about his health.
I was moving full steam ahead with funeral planning. It was a strange yet welcome distraction, a way to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. Actually, nothing can stop me when I’m in that state. As Ben would say, my “motor was running.” In some ways, I’d never been so calm and undistressed in my life. I had called the National Cathedral and spoken to Dean Gary Hall to set up an appointment with the staff. I had lined up the choirs, a tenor, a band, the food and a tent for the reception, the programs, the evergreens for the church. I hadn’t cried. I had too much to do and not enough time, although I still hadn’t accepted it yet. I was planning all this just in case. . . .
A week or so before Ben died, Vallerie was conducting a “routine” checkup on Ben. She was trying to get a sense of where he was. Suddenly he turned serious. He looked at Vallerie and me.
“When am I leaving?” he asked.
“What do you mean, Ben?” I responded. He seemed puzzled that I didn’t understand.
“When do I have to go?” I looked at Vallerie. Was he saying what I thought he was saying?
“Go where, Ben?” I asked. He appeared frustrated and impatient.
“When am I going home?”
“You are home, Ben,” I said, taking his hand. “You are home.”
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the sofa. Vallerie motioned to me to leave the room with her. We walked into the kitchen.
“He’s asking when he’s going to die, isn’t he?” I said, barely able to keep it together.
“Yes.”
I knew that “going home” was the closest we were going to get to speaking about his death. His spirit was in me and mine in him. We didn’t need to say anything to each other. He knew and I knew. We both knew.
* * *
That same night Bob Woodward and Elsa Walsh came to see Ben. Everyone wanted to say good-bye. Ben came alive—it was amazing how he would rally. I fixed him a drink as I did every night. We laughed and talked. He was really coherent. Ben and I sat together on the sofa, he held my hand tightly and swung it back and forth. He was so loving and affectionate and talked about what good care I was taking of him that it nearly made me cry. Elsa too.
Ben gave Bob the finger at one point, which really meant he was back. Bob was thrilled. After they left, I took him upstairs to help him shower and get him ready for bed. He was in a particularly feisty mood. I had a hard time with him in the shower and finally had to undress and get in with him as I sometimes did when he couldn’t wash himself. When I got him out, I started to dry him off. At one point the towel brushed up against his private parts.
“Ouch!” he yelled.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Did I hurt you?”
He glared at me. “If you hit my balls one more time, this party is over.”
I burst out laughing. I looked up at him to see how upset he was, and he had a mischievous grin on his face. It was Ben. I stood up and put my arms around him, both of us still dripping wet, and held him for the longest time.
That night, after his shower, as I was walking him to his side of the bed, he stopped on my side and sat down. I had on a little silk night shift. He pulled me to him and began to run his hands underneath it, caressing my body, kissing me all over, telling me how beautiful I was, how desirable I was, how much he loved me. I knew he wanted to make love to me. I wanted him to as well. That part of our lives had never ended. But I knew he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t too. We just held each other. I have never known such longing. I have never known such sorrow.
* * *
Because the house had been busy with family and friends throughout that week—everyone wanting to say good-bye—both Ben and I were exhausted, although he seemed to be holding his own. I finally decided to stop having people come by. He couldn’t handle it anymore.
That weekend Quinn and I decided to take Ben to Porto Bello again. We didn’t know how many weekends he had left, and the weather was going to be beautiful, sunny and crisp. We could have a fire, which Ben loved. We had a hard time getting him in the car, and he slept the whole way down. We had told Vallerie we were going, and she said she would alert the hospice people down there. I took my hospice kit with me. By the time we got to the country Ben couldn’t get out of the car. When we finally got him into the house, he didn’t want to sit by the fire. He wanted to go to bed, but we had to carry him up the stairs. I almost decided to put him back in the car and drive home, but it was already dark and I figured if he hadn’t improved by the next day, we’d go back.
We got him in bed and he went right to sleep. The next day he couldn’t get out of bed. He was practically catatonic. I called Vallerie. They couldn’t get a hospice nurse over to us because they weren’t on the same plan or something. It was all very confusing. Quinn had called his friend Stephen, whose wedding we had had at Porto Bello the weekend before. Stephen’s father, John Ball, was the priest at the Episcopal Church in St. Mary’s City across the river from us. He dealt with hospice all the time, but he couldn’t get a nurse over either. Ben was really sinking, and I was in a panic. He wasn’t making any sense, just talking gibberish. I spoke to John, who thought Ben might be dying. He called his friend the local doctor, who agreed with his diagnosis. I was practically hysterical. I didn’t want him to die at Porto Bello. We had no hospice care. The police would come. We’d have to get his body to Washington. I didn’t know what to do.
John showed up at the house and suggested he give Ben last rites. He and Quinn and I gathered around Ben in our bedroom and placed our hands on him as we prayed. I had never heard last rites before except in books and movies. I felt as if I were in a movie. It was unreal. The movie was going to be over soon and then we could go to sleep and in the morning everything would be okay. I wrapped myself around Ben, weeping. Quinn was holding me, stricken. It was all happening so fast. Ben seemed only vaguely aware of what was going on.
Father Ball began with this prayer: “Almighty God, we lift up your servant Ben, and we thank you for his life. . . . Help him to know you are right there with him holding his hand as you lead him gently home.” He continued praying: “We remember, O Lord, the slenderness of the thread, which separates life from death and the suddenness with which it can be broken.” He then said the Lord’s Prayer and anointed Ben on the forehead with oil.
After the prayer of commendation, he ended with a blessing: “May the peace of God which passes all understanding keep your heart and mind in the knowledge and love of God and of his son, Jesus Christ, our Lord. The blessing of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, be with you now and remain with you always. Amen.”
Not since Quinn’s wedding had I been so immersed in prayer. His words were not only not off-putting but welcome and deeply comforting. I felt Ben was safe, in good hands, cherished, and he would be taken care of. I believed for that moment that Ben was in God’s hands.
Ben began breathing a bit more steadily and I persuaded John to leave, promising to call him if Ben died. I made Quinn go to bed and clung on to Ben for the rest of the night, counting his irregular breaths, my hand on his heart. I finally fell asleep. Sunday morning he was still alive. But he was definitely dying. John Ball got the doctor to come over to see if we could get back to Washington in a car or if we needed to get an ambulance or if we should let him die where we were. I was adamant that we take him back to Washington. The doctor felt we could get him back alive if we gently put him in the car with the seat all the way down and pillows around him, which we did. We made it home quickly and had him in our bed by midday. He was so happy to be there and so was I. I curled my body around him and never left him until he died two days later.
For those two days Ben was surrounded by family and friends. Quinn later told me that on the last day Ben was able to speak he saw that he could barely keep his eyes open. When Quinn asked his father if he was okay, Ben threw up his hands and said, “Yeah, of course. I’m fine. Don’t worry.” Later that day Quinn had gone back and lay down on the bed with him. Ben lifted his head, just barely, looked over his shoulder, and said to him: “I got a good feeling about you . . . I love you.” Those were his last words to Quinn. What a send-off.
Leslie Marshall, Ben’s former daughter-in-law, who lived across the street, was there the whole time. I don’t know how I would have made it through without Leslie. She came every day to give Ben a hug and keep up my spirits. Ben’s daughter, Marina, and his stepdaughter, Ros Casey, were also with us every day. Other family members came in and out. He seemed to recognize everyone. Bob and Elsa came by again and came upstairs. “Ben,” I said, “it’s Bob and Elsa.” “Bob Woodward,” shouted Ben and practically sat up, stretching his arms out for a hug. “Yaaaaay!” They stayed only a short while, and he collapsed back into his pillow. Eden and Jerry Rafshoon came too, but Ben was beginning to drift off. Soon I asked everyone to leave. I wanted to be alone with him.
When the house was finally quiet, I turned to Ben, the light still on, still holding him tightly and I looked him in the eyes. “I love you, Ben,” I said simply.
He looked at me with such adoration I will never get over it. I don’t expect to see that look in anyone’s eyes again. Most people may not be lucky enough to see it even once.
“Me too, babe,” he said.
Those were the last words he spoke to me.
* * *
Ben drifted off to sleep. I didn’t know that he wouldn’t regain consciousness. I thought I would see him in the morning, talk to him, tell him again that I loved him. Have him tell me he loved me. That would never happen.
October 20 was our thirty-sixth wedding anniversary. I whispered to him that he couldn’t die before that. He had to live out that day for me, for us. He didn’t try to get up that night but his breathing had taken on a rasping quality. He would breathe in, with a breath full of sound, followed by a long silence that seemed like an eternity and then, when I thought he had drawn his last breath, he would breathe in again. I slept fitfully, on and off, too afraid to let myself go for fear he might die.
The next morning, Quinn was right there. He didn’t leave Ben’s side, sitting in a chair next to the bed and holding his other hand. Carmen brought in some balloons and flow
ers. All of us made a big fuss over Ben and our anniversary. He was not responding. I still had so many things I wanted to say to him. I lay in the bed next to him all day, reliving our wedding, reminding him of what a spectacular day it was, a beautiful sparkling October day and how I was so happy that I collapsed in his arms in tears when I was saying our marriage vows in front of Judge Bazelon.
I know he heard me. I began to caress his face and his head, tracing the outline of his profile over and over again, so as to memorize it, as if I were reading Braille. I thought if I kept touching him, I could keep him from leaving me.
I held his hand, only letting go to get up and use the bathroom. I would warn him not to die while I was gone. When I let go of his hand, he would clench and unclench his fingers until I got back. We went through the whole day like that. I smoothed his forehead, kissed him, and lay with my head on his chest, listening to him breathe laboriously, counting his heartbeats, praying for him to live, praying for him to die.
That night, our last together, our anniversary night, I turned out the lights and I reminisced to him about our honeymoon night. What happiness we had shared. What passion we had shared.
I needed that closeness again. He was wearing his favorite French gray-and-navy-striped long-sleeve T-shirt, so worn that it was raggedy around the neck and sleeves. I took it off. I had an overwhelming primitive urge to taste him—the same urge I had the night before Quinn’s surgery when I thought he might die. This time I knew Ben was going to die. I began to kiss him all over and kept going until I was exhausted and he and I were both slick with my tears. Then I just lay on top of him and let him do the breathing for both of us until I fell asleep.
