by Sally Quinn
I didn’t sleep long. Finally I rolled over and held his hand and listened to him, listened to him dying. One thing I know for sure. God was in the room with us that night.
* * *
The next morning I began to give Ben morphine. I had the kit and gave him a syringe full every half hour or so. Vallerie arrived in the late afternoon. His breathing had become really erratic. The pauses in between breaths made each one seem like the last. Even then, though, if I let go of his hand for a second, his fingers would start to wiggle. But then it happened; he took one last deep breath, let out a huge shudder, and seemed to sink back in his pillow. I kept waiting for the next gasp, but it never came. Please, Ben, one more breath. Nothing. His hand loosened in mine, even though I wouldn’t let go.
Quinn put his head on his father’s chest and began to sob. Ben’s mouth was open. Vallerie came over and closed it. Then she called hospice. They called the funeral home. I lay there holding him, the family surrounding him.
What was I supposed to do now?
When Ben and I decided to get married we had less than a week to arrange our wedding. He wouldn’t let me tell anyone. He didn’t want to get scooped by the Star, our rival newspaper. I suddenly realized with all the family in the room and people downstairs in the house, the word would get out quickly that Ben had died. My journalistic instincts took over. It was 7:30 P.M. If I called now, we would make the first edition.
The Washington Post broke the story online and we made the first edition. Ben would have been so happy.
The funeral home came to get his body and took him away. I was beyond exhausted. I asked everyone to leave and took a shower, took my first Ambien in a year, and passed out. I had taken Ben’s French T-shirt, rolled it up, and clutched it in my arms like a baby pillow. I would sleep with it every night from then on.
* * *
The following morning I woke up alone in my bed. Something was wrong. Something was missing. Then I remembered. Ben was gone. My sister, Donna, went to the funeral home with me. Somebody had to view the body. I didn’t want to. I wanted to remember him alive, even the way he was at the end. Donna came back from the viewing shaking her head. “You don’t want to see him,” she said. “He doesn’t look like Ben.”
Of course he wouldn’t when that much energy and life and light goes out of a person, and Ben had more than most. It couldn’t be Ben. But where was he? What had happened to all that energy? It had to be somewhere. I wanted so badly to feel it, but I didn’t. I wanted a visitation but I hadn’t had one. I wanted a sign.
“Ben,” I kept repeating to him under my breath, “let me know you are here with me.”
That night I went to bed, I started to turn out my light. Just then the light on Ben’s bedside table on the other side of the room went on. It stayed on for several minutes. At first I was stunned. “Oh, Ben, you are here. Thank you for letting me know. I love you so much. I miss you terribly already.” His light flickered several times as though he were responding in kind. Then it went dark.
I threw myself on his pillow hoping by some miracle he would materialize. But it was just his pillow.
The next morning Carmen and I checked the lightbulb to make sure it hadn’t burned out. It was fine. It still is.
* * *
The days before the funeral were a total blur. There would be three thousand mourners at the National Cathedral. It would be broadcast on C-SPAN. I was drowning in names, lists, programs, limousines, seating, music, tablecloths, flowers, menus, what to wear. Each thing I did had the mundane about it, yet I had a vision of the spectacular. It had to be. For Ben.
I spent hours going over the service, what music should be played and when, what readings, who the speakers, pallbearers, and ushers would be, in what order they would speak. Ben’s and my song was “Evergreen.” I would have the same Irish tenor who sang at Quinn and Pari’s wedding sing it before the official service began. I wanted no flowers, only masses of different evergreens banked along and in front of the altar. I wanted one white rose to place on Ben’s casket. He always gave me roses for our anniversary. I wanted a color guard with the American flag, “Taps,” his favorite hymns, a choir. The dean of the cathedral, Gary Hall, was incredible, and the whole staff helped me plan the ceremony according to the protocol of the Episcopal Church.
My family had arrived from California and the house was full, thank God. The phones were ringing, the doorbells were chiming, notes and flowers and food were being delivered constantly. There was no time to grieve. The day of the funeral arrived. Oddly, I felt no emotion and was not at all nervous. Everything had been planned. I woke up, had some yogurt, and got dressed. It was strange but I had the feeling I was dressing for my own funeral. I put on each piece of clothing, each piece of jewelry (I wore Ben’s family necklace, the same one I wore at our wedding) with ritualistic deliberation. I did my hair, put on my makeup, dabbed perfume (Sortilège) at my neck and on my wrists as though it would be the last time.
I slowly walked out of my room and down the stairs to the hallway where the whole family was waiting, everyone in black. Ben’s children, grandchildren, stepchildren, their children, nieces and nephews—there must have been forty or fifty all together. There were limousines waiting for everyone. I gave people their car assignments. In ours, I told Quinn, would be him and me and Ben. I had forgotten. Ben would not be in our car. Ben was dead. Ben would be in his coffin in the long black hearse in front of us.
I got in the car and we drove to the National Cathedral. As we pulled up I saw a throng of people lined up to enter. We, the immediate family, were shown to the holding room. Vice President Joe Biden, whom I had known since he was first elected to the Senate, and his wife Dr. Jill Biden came into the room to give their condolences.
Finally it was time for the service to begin. I was still strangely unemotional. We filed out of the receiving room and took our places behind the casket in order to walk down the aisle. I stared straight ahead, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone for fear I would lose my control. I was determined not to cry. I carried a white rose to place on Ben’s casket. I kissed the rose and placed it on the coffin. We took our seats in the front row, Quinn next to me, and the service began.
For me, the National Cathedral has always been a place of transcendence. I’ve always felt close to God or something higher than myself in that space. I often go there in the midafternoon when the sun pours in through the stained-glass windows and sit and meditate and pray. Even the spires of the cathedral seem to be lifting their arms to God, beseeching, praising.
It’s a place where I feel I can go to ask for help. I feel something is there, something that gives me solace and comfort, something that reinforces what I now call my faith. I feel cherished there. I am never alone.
For the funeral service, some of the rituals were dictated by church rules and one of the hymns was requested by Ben. The rest of the service I planned. I wanted, above all, to honor him in a way that would be fitting to his personality. There was sadness, yes, but I wanted people to feel joy as well. It was an exquisite outpouring of love for Ben. Ben’s daughter, Marina, and stepdaughter, Ros Casey, did readings, as well as Bo Jones and Jerry Rafshoon. Michael Newman said Kaddish. Tributes were given by Carl Bernstein, Tom Brokaw, Don Graham, David Ignatius, Walter Pincus, and Bob Woodward. Somehow I managed to keep it together, partly by listening so hard to everything each person said about a man that I knew they loved too.
The most difficult part of the service, the part I had been dreading had arrived. Quinn was going to eulogize his father. He had come to me the day before the funeral, in tears. “I can’t do this, Mom,” he said. “I’ll never make it.” He had written his eulogy but I had not seen it. He was confident about what he had to say.
“Yes, you can,” I told him. “You can because Dad will be with you the whole time. He will be standing beside you with his arm around your shoulder and he will make sure you can do it.”
He didn’t seem convinced. I pra
yed he would have the courage. He did. He soared. Among his sentences that flew out into the cathedral that day were some that struck me as creating a full picture of the father he had just lost:
A lot of people have been talking about my father as a legend, and a lion, and a giant, and he was a huge, huge man. But for me Dad was majestic because he was the simplest man I ever met. . . . He taught me that if you do the little things well and treat everyone with respect it can take you so much further than you ever anticipated. . . . My father was also the happiest man I ever met. I grew up with him telling me that my happiness made him happy. He never complained—about anything. . . . Everyone who ever met him wanted more of him. . . .
. . . My father had the deepest voice, the broadest chest, and the loudest heart of any man I ever met. I used to put my head on his chest as a kid, and his heart would be so loud I would have to move my head over to the right side of his chest. Your heart is still beating, I would tell him, and he would laugh.
Quinn’s voice broke from time to time, but he managed to control his emotions just when it looked like he would fall apart. Near the end Quinn said this:
Losing him has been hard, but it has already made me stronger. It is as if something inside me clicked. I used to be someone others might need to take care of, but now I feel ready to take care of others. My mom is no weakling, as you know, but I will take care of her. Maybe the old man is hitting me with those piercing eyes of his again. He doesn’t need to say anything. I can’t see him anymore, I can’t hear him—but I get the message: “Hey, buddy, it’s your turn. Get it right, kid.”
I dug my nails into my hands. I bit my lip. I clenched my teeth, I sucked in my stomach. I tried to breathe as rapidly as I could. I thought I might faint. I knew that if I let go at that moment I would never recover. I was overcome with wrenching grief. Then I heard a sobbing noise to my left. I turned and saw both Vice President Biden and Secretary of State John Kerry visibly moved. The vice president had his head buried in his handkerchief and was crying openly. (Later he would write Quinn a personal note telling him what a wonderful job he had done. “I gave my father’s eulogy,” he told Quinn. “Yours was better.”)
Then I realized that everyone in the church was crying. Everyone but me. Strangely I felt buoyed by the tears. I prayed. Please help me be strong. I began to feel stronger. Somebody heard me.
* * *
The clouds, when we walked out of the cathedral, were dark and low and menacing, and gusts of wind suddenly whipped around us, tossing my hair up over my head as we got into the car. I suddenly realized that Ben was not with us. How could that be? It was always Ben and Quinn and me.
The immediate family drove to Oak Hill Cemetery in Georgetown where we would leave Ben’s casket to be temporarily buried in a crypt in the chapel until I could build a family mausoleum for him and for us.
The chapel is a beautiful Gothic structure built in 1850 and designed by the famous architect James Renwick. Small—it probably seats fifty people—with lovely amber and gold stained-glass windows, it is set among trees surrounded by a garden and a number of tombstones, including those of Katharine Graham and her husband, Phil.
Once the family had gathered, Dean Gary Hall said a blessing over Ben. It was then that I completely fell apart. I went over to kiss the coffin and collapsed on top of it, sobbing so hard I couldn’t move. Slowly, the other members of the family left the chapel so I could be alone with him. How was I ever going to leave him there? How was I ever going to go on without him? How was I ever going to pull myself together for the reception? I had made it this far. I had to make it through the rest of the afternoon. I had to do it for Ben. Now more than ever, I wanted him to be proud of me.
It was always Ben who was there to console me. He would take my head and rest it on his huge barrel chest and put his strong arms around me and his big hands would caress my hair and he would say in his deep gravelly voice, “It’s going to be okay, baby.” Now there was nobody to do that.
Now I was alone. Ben was in this box I was lying on top of. Never to come out. He would not be at home to greet our guests with me as he always had been. I would greet them on my own. I had to. And I had to go, to leave. To leave him there alone.
* * *
The reception for nearly one thousand people was in a tent in the backyard. I went in the kitchen door and ran into the bathroom to check my face. My eyes were red and swollen, but at least there was no mascara streaming down my cheeks.
I made my way down the back steps to the tent and was engulfed by people the minute I arrived. From then on it was just a giant swirl of people and hugs and kisses and compliments on the service and somebody putting a drink in my hand and smiling and greeting and accepting condolences, murmuring thank-yous and listening to great Ben stories and turning to grab hands and hear more thank-yous. I was feeling dizzy from all the noise and the laughter and the faces. The one thing I remember thinking was that I had to concentrate on something to keep my mind off the fact that Ben had died.
Finally the last guests departed and I went up to the house with the family to relax. The food from the tent had been brought up to the house and put on the dining room table. I realized I was hungry and someone got me a plate and another glass of wine. I was sitting in the library on the sofa when Ben’s grandson Marshall, weeping, joined me. After kissing Ben’s coffin, he had stepped out of the chapel to compose himself. He found he was face-to-face with a majestic eight-point buck. Instinctively, he pulled out his cell phone and took a photo, which he showed me. It was Ben.
I was still sitting there when Donna came over and sat by my side. Suddenly, without any warning, a gigantic wail erupted from inside me. It was so full of anguish that it shocked even me. I didn’t know it was going to happen. I didn’t know where it had come from. Everyone in the room froze. It kept coming. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I had to let it out. If I didn’t, my body would explode. All that pain that had been building up for years and especially in the last week just kept pouring out of me.
Donna held me. Nobody knew what to do. There was no relief possible. Those who were in the living room came rushing in to see what had happened. I could hear whispers and flurries and questions. There was nothing to be done. I was inconsolable.
Finally there was a moment when I slumped over with exhaustion. There was nothing left inside me. No emotion. Nothing.
The next thing I remember was waking up in the morning, reaching over for Ben, realizing he was not there and that that’s the way it would be for the rest of my life. I got up, put on my black clothes, and went downstairs for breakfast.
Chapter 22
Since age two I’ve been waltzing up and down with the question of life’s meaning. And I’m obliged to report that the answer changes from week to week. When I know the answer, I know it absolutely. As soon as I know that I know it, I know that I know nothing.
—Maya Angelou, quoted in The Meaning of Life
Nothing outside of my bubble of grief had any effect on me. I felt like the famous bubble boy. I could hear people talking to me. I could see them. I could respond, but they were all outside.
Somebody e-mailed me the poem “Funeral Blues,” by W. H. Auden. These four lines were especially wrenching:
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
How could I have been so wrong? How could I ever really not have taken the reality to heart that Ben would die? I guess I didn’t believe it because he was so fully alive, so invincible. I was lost without him.
* * *
I never even thought about what color I was going to wear in the weeks and months following Ben’s death. It wasn’t that I thought I was supposed to wear black. It’s just what I automatically pulled out of the closet, day after day. Nobody remarked on it. I didn’t know how long the mourni
ng period was “supposed” to be. I didn’t think I had to do one thing or another, according to some long-ago-written prescription. Looking at the many lively colors in my closet—the reds, pinks, blues, even the whites—I was repelled. It was unthinkable that I could wear anything but black. It would have been a sacrilege. I don’t know why. I just felt it.
I had signed a contract to write this book some time before Ben’s death. It was after talking with Mark Tauber about a piece I wrote on the importance of the labyrinth Ben and I had created at Porto Bello that I walked every day when I was there. I had met Mark through my work on On Faith and he suggested that I think about writing a spiritual memoir, one that touched on the multiple religious and quasi-religious influences in my life. I viewed the idea as a way to walk with and talk to myself about the different phases I had passed through, to look back at what I thought and believed along the way.
I didn’t start writing in earnest until a few weeks after Ben died. Suddenly I felt driven to pour it all out. I had never kept a diary or journal. I never wanted to be a person so enamored with herself as to think every thought, feeling, and act needed to be recorded. I also didn’t want to be an observer of my own life. I wanted to live in real time. The book took on a whole new urgency, a palpable way to deal with my grief. It became all-consuming. Even when I wasn’t actually writing, I was ruminating about what it all meant. Little did I know how significant this book would become to me. The whole process saved me.
* * *
Ben’s decline in those last few years had made it impossible for me to concentrate enough to write. I was focused only on him. Now that he had died, he was foremost in my thoughts all the time. I saw him in my mind’s eye, felt him ever present, and at the same time I wanted to make more sense of the meaning of it all, what I’d found all those decades before and what I’d lost with his death. My mind immediately turned that thought around to the idea of what I might find while moving forward without him.
