by Bo Caldwell
When I reached our front gate, I held out my huge bouquet and said, “Happy birthday!” I would have liked to have been holding more than flowers, but the bouquet was truly beautiful and I expected her to be surprised.
She was, but for the wrong reason. She looked at me quizzically and said, “My birthday is in November.”
Now I was confused. “I know,” I said. “It’s today.”
“What month is it?” she said softly, her expression pained.
I felt a rush of fear at her question. Not what day is it, which I could have explained away, but what month is it. “It’s November,” I said, as matter-of-factly as I could. “The eleventh,” And as I looked at her, I thought, Please remember; please don’t be like this.
She nodded, but I could see she was struggling. “Of course it is,” she said, and she laughed weakly. Only she didn’t meet my eyes, and I was afraid to meet hers. I wanted to say, What’s wrong, Katherine? How can you not know what month it is? But I couldn’t, whether because it would be too painful for me or for her, I can’t say. I know only that it was the first moment in our married life that I felt something dishonest pass between us: her not admitting her eerie confusion, and me not admitting I saw it.
But the moment passed, and we celebrated her birthday that evening with Chinese dinner and angel food cake brought by our closest friends at church, Thomas and Rebecca Kung, the couple who had taken us there that first morning. It was a good night; Katherine’s eyes were bright and she laughed and seemed very much herself, and I pushed my concerns to the back of my mind.
I awoke that night to find our bedroom lights on; Katherine was getting dressed, humming as she did. It was sometime after three o’clock in the morning.
“Are you ill?” I asked.
She seemed content, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. She did not stop humming, only shook her head. She was putting on a dress she did not much care for because she said its light-brown color looked dusty.
I was feeling irritated. “Katherine, why are you up?” I asked.
“I’m going to the grocery store,” she said matter-of-factly. “We’re out of milk. I’m going to call a taxi.”
“But it’s the middle of the night. The market won’t be open for hours.”
She nodded. “That’s what I can’t figure out. Why is it so dark?”
I was tired and cross, and beneath the crossness I was afraid. But because she seemed genuinely perplexed, I wanted to comfort her. “It’s a little early,” I said. “The market isn’t open yet.”
She was not convinced. She dressed and brushed her hair and put her shoes on and said she was going outside to wait for it to get light. For a few minutes I stayed in bed, admitting to myself for the first time that something was truly wrong and wondering what it could be.
But I had no answer. I put on my robe and slippers and went outside and sat down next to her on the top step of the porch. I commented on how dark it was, and she agreed that this did not make sense; she couldn’t understand why the sun wasn’t up yet. I tried other observations, hoping she would see she was mistaken.
When my reasoning had no effect, I just held her hand as we waited together in the darkness, listening together to the sounds in the night. I don’t know what Katherine was thinking. Her left hand rested on her purse, and she tapped her fingers to the hymn she was humming. As I held her other hand in mine, I thought of many other times when I had held her hand, and how familiar it was, and how, when our fingers were interlocked, I could not completely tell the difference between my fingers and hers.
After some time, she leaned her head on my shoulder, something she did in China only involuntarily, such as when she fell asleep next to me on a long train ride, but which had become habit here. I heard the familiar sound of her breathing as she relaxed.
“I had the strangest dream,” she said softly. “We were in China and I was baking bread for you. Do you remember that, when I made bread for your birthday when we were first married?”
I nodded, surprised at the sudden vividness of a memory I had not come upon for many years. She was right; we were newlyweds. I had come home late in the day after being gone for nearly a week. As I approached our home, I had thought I was crazy because I smelled bread baking. The Chinese didn’t bake bread as we knew it—only steamed wheat buns called mantou—and in China I had longed for real bread more than just about any other food. “It was perfect. I never knew how you did it.”
“It took some doing, and that’s what the dream was. I had bought the wheat and was taking out the sticks and stones and clods of dirt. Then I washed the grain, dried it, and milled it by hand. I sifted the flour and mixed the dough, then kneaded it and baked it in an oven Chung Hao helped me make from a five-gallon kerosene can. It was very real.”
“You did all that in your dream, or you did all that to make the bread for me?”
“Both,” she said, and I felt a wave of remorse as I recalled eating nearly the whole loaf at one sitting, completely unaware of the time and effort it had required.
“In the dream I put the bread on a table for you, and after I did, I realized it was time to leave the house I was in. It wasn’t really our house, just a house. But the owner had said he would not keep repairing it, and that I should get ready to move. I didn’t like this news at first, but then I saw that the owner was right; the house was wearing down. So I was getting ready to leave. When I woke up, I was just beginning to be excited about where I was going.” She held my hand tightly and was quiet for a moment. Then she said softly, “I’m afraid of what is happening to me.”
Because my heart ached and I had no answer for her, I said only, “I know. But we’ll be all right.”
A short while later we stood and went inside. Katherine put her nightgown on again and we got into bed and she fell asleep as quickly as a tired child. I did not; I lay in bed and watched the window lighten, sensing the possibility of a loss I could not fathom.
That night was a turning point, the beginning of my wife’s slow leave-taking of this earth. The following week she had another episode. We were taking a walk, and with no warning whatsoever her right leg gave out from under her. She would have fallen had I not caught her; we were near a bus stop, and I helped her to the bench, where we sat down. She was very pale, and I could see she was shaken. But after a few minutes she insisted that the problem was her knee and that she felt well enough to walk home.
The next morning she gave in to my request to see the doctor, who, after questioning her and ruling out other possible causes of decreased mental function such as thyroid disease and infections, concluded that she had experienced a series of small strokes, occurrences that seemed harmless—there was no paralysis or permanent weakness—but were nevertheless taking their toll and would in all likelihood increase in frequency and effect. Their cause, he said, was essential hypertension—high blood pressure with no known cause or cure—which was also responsible for many of the ailments that had plagued Katherine throughout her life: the headaches and fatigue and shortness of breath. When he listened to her heart, he heard an abnormality in the rhythm of its beating, and an X-ray confirmed his suspicion that the work of pumping blood at that elevated pressure had resulted in the enlargement of her heart, another possible cause of her dizziness and shortness of breath. His chief suggestions were to slow down and avoid stairs.
Before we left his office, he also spoke to me privately. My wife’s symptoms, he said, would most probably worsen as the strokes intensified or became more frequent. There were, however, things I could do to help. A consistent schedule and environment helped; there should be no changes at home or in her daily routine. She might need help with familiar tasks, which could become difficult for her; she might completely forget to do everyday things or do them incorrectly.
And so we adjusted. In an attempt to protect her from failing at things she’d done for years but might not be able to do now, I found reasons for her not to do them. I balanced our checkbook
, I made out the grocery list and went with her to do the shopping, I kept our calendar. I watched her carefully and was even more careful that she not notice my observation. But try as I would, I could not stop her decline. Each month she seemed a little older and more frail, more forgetful and less herself. Her handwriting lost its sharp precision; her step faltered; her mind slowed. She was at times childlike; the woman who had stood bravely in our compound yard with the southern army’s rifles trained on her became anxious when she was alone. When I left the room she watched me uncertainly, and when I left the house—which I did for shorter and shorter periods—she asked nervously when I would be home. I understood that I was losing her not all at once but a little at a time.
There were also times of clarity, moments when she was suddenly her old self. One evening a year after our visit with the doctor, she was sitting at the kitchen table slicing apples for an apple pie. She had nearly finished when I came in for a glass of water. When she saw me, she put her knife down and smiled. “I have been having the most wonderful time,” she said. “I’ve been in China, seeing many of our old friends.”
I must have looked alarmed, because she tapped her head. “In my mind,” she said, and as I sat down at the table she asked, “What do you remember the most?”
I nodded; this was the kind of question she asked often, I suspected as a way to gain information without directly asking for it. I said, “I think of the evenings. Of walking through the city at the end of the day, when the shops were closing and it was beginning to get dark. Or of nearing the compound when I was returning home from far away. I would be so tired; I would have spent all day in the city, preaching and talking to people, or I would have walked twenty miles from some little village. Maybe the day had been good, and people had seemed glad to hear something about God; maybe the day had been bad, and I had been cursed and spat on.”
Katherine laughed softly. “We never could tell which it would be, could we?”
I nodded. “But either way, whatever kind of day it had been, I always felt peaceful when evening came. I liked the sounds of people talking and calling to each other in the streets as they went home. I loved evening and all those things because they meant I was coming home and that I would soon be with you.”
She smiled. “You were smitten with me from the start, Will Kiehn.”
“No question.”
She was quiet for a time. Then she looked at me anxiously and whispered, “What if none of it was true?”
I started to laugh but her expression stopped me, and when I realized her question was serious I was shocked for a moment. But I took her hand and looked into her eyes. “I would do it all again,” I said. “It was worth it, every moment.”
“Yes,” she said, and I could see she was relieved. “I think that’s right.” She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again her eyes were clear, her expression calm. She said, “You’ll be all right without me, you know.”
I could only nod, for my throat was suddenly tight, and I felt the nearness of a great fear. But I saw such compassion in her that I also felt hope, though I wasn’t sure for what.
“If I’d had my choice, you would have gone first. I know how you’ll be. You’ll lose things and forget to eat, like you did in China when I was sick.”
I nodded again.
“But He’ll see you through.” She squeezed my hand, a gesture as familiar as breathing, and said, “Do you remember in Kuang P’ing Ch’eng when the southern army was nearing the city and we had everyone in the worship hall?”
“Yes.” It suddenly seemed more real than our kitchen.
“As we all sat there, you began to speak. Do you remember what you said?”
“Vaguely.”
She nodded. “I suspect you’ve forgotten a lot of your best moments. That was one of them. Your faith had firm hold of you that day, mu shih. Without making a fuss, without standing up or really doing anything at all, you calmed everyone and gave us courage. You said, ‘Whatever happens, we are victorious. Whether we live or die, we are His. We have nothing to fear.’ ” She squeezed my hand. “That’s how I feel—that there’s nothing to be afraid of. For either of us.” She gazed out the window for a moment. “This growing old is the great test, you know—the challenge we’ve been preparing for all along.”
“Yes,” I said, but what I was thinking was how foolish I had been. When we left China, I had believed our trials were over. I understood at that moment that my greatest challenge lay ahead: life without my dear one.
“But God will see us through. He has never failed me—especially when he gave me you.”
December 3, 1945
Last night I could not fall asleep. The world seemed dangerous and our room did not feel safe. You and I lay in bed together and you were very still, your breathing even and deep. I thought you were asleep, and I lay next to you, praying. I could not remember how to fall asleep; there seemed to be some trick I’d forgotten. So I decided I would just stay awake all night.
After a few minutes, you said, “Katherine, is something troubling you?” I said no because I was embarrassed; I couldn’t explain why I was afraid. You said, “Are you sure?” and I told you my secret. I said, “I’m afraid.”
You sat up and switched on the light and turned toward me and took my hand. I thought you would tell me there was nothing to be afraid of, but instead you said, “We never know what we’ll be afraid of, do we?” and you kissed the back of my hand. You said we could rest in the other room, and you took the extra quilt from the closet and we went into the living room and you let me curl up next to you on our sofa, and I fell asleep and slept through the night. I dreamed of a river, with beautiful, clear running water and big shade trees on both sides and air that smelled of narcissus.
My sweet Will, my sweet, sweet Will. A few minutes ago you brought me roses from the garden. You are so kind to me, so good. How will I ever thank you? How can I ever repay you?
I believe I could write a book about the goodness of God.
A month later, she awoke one morning with a headache. After breakfast she did the nearly unheard-of and went back to bed, and as I sat with her in the darkened room I knew that something was very wrong. She lay still when awake, but when she dozed she pulled at the sheets and seemed to be wrestling with something I could not see. My sense of foreboding was strong enough to cause me to phone for a taxicab, and Katherine did not argue. As we rode in the backseat she seemed confused about where she was, but when I reassured her that she was safe she nodded and seemed satisfied.
At the hospital I helped her to a seat in the emergency room then went to the triage nurse to try to explain what was wrong. I did not know what to say, other than that Katherine was acting strangely and that she had a headache, but when I started to speak to the nurse and motioned to Katherine, the nurse immediately called out for help and fear shot through me, for my wife was slumped in the chair, unconscious.
Almost immediately, Katherine was surrounded by nurses and a doctor who lifted her onto a gurney and wheeled her away. Their voices were urgent and hurried; I was not permitted to follow them but told to stay where I was and wait, which I did, sitting in the chair that was still warm from Katherine’s body.
I do not know how much time passed before a doctor I did not know called my name. He explained that my wife had had a cerebral hemorrhage and that her condition was serious. He then led me through double doors to a room at the end of a hallway, where I found my wife, silent and unresponsive. An hour had passed since we had left home.
I sat with her throughout that day, holding her hand, speaking to her, praying as much for myself as I did for her, for I was terrified of losing her. In my heart I clung tightly to her and knew I was not leaving her in God’s care, but I was afraid to do so. I had telephoned John and Madeleine, and Thomas Kung from our church, and many members of our congregation came and went during that day, praying for Katherine. I could not name any of them. I was aware only of my wife.
; Her skin became cool to my touch, her breathing irregular. At eight o’clock in the evening visiting hours ended and hospital rules dictated that I leave. In the several hours since she had lost consciousness her expression had become relaxed and peaceful, the lines of worry and fatigue fading from her countenance. Before I left for the night I kissed her and gave thanks for her for the hundredth time that day. Then I went home alone.
A few hours later the telephone’s loud ring broke the stillness of our home. I was awake and knew before I answered it what the call was: my dear wife had passed away. She had not suffered; she had not regained consciousness. She had simply not awoken and was now no longer on this earth.
For many years I had had the sense that Katherine’s time would come before mine. I had in a way accepted this, and I had asked to be strong when that time came, for I was certain I would be with her when she died. That I wasn’t grieved me deeply.
The days immediately following her death are unclear in my memory. I know that Madeleine and Pastor Yee’s wife dressed her body for burial in Chinese clothes and black felt shoes that had been purchased for that purpose. I know I also wanted her to have Mo Yun’s silver clasp in her hair, and I nearly drove myself mad trying to find it, berating myself severely when I could not. I know I was surrounded by people and food; more than three hundred members of our congregation attended her funeral at our church and filed in and out of our home for several days. I know I slept very little and wept a great deal; I was bereft, home to a sorrow more painful and profound than anything I had ever imagined.
