On My Own

by Diane Rehm

  Several months after E.J.’s death, Roger invited a number of close friends to dinner, setting the table with all the beautiful crystal and china that she had always so elegantly displayed. We toasted her, talked of her, looked around the beautiful room, and felt her presence.

  I, too, have found that entertaining friends can be part of the healing process. For months prior to his move to Brighton Gardens, John expressed reluctance at our holding dinner parties or cocktail gatherings, primarily because he no longer felt he had much to offer. He would barely converse, quite often leaving the room to return to bed. In deference, then, I invited only a very few close friends to be with us.

  After he died, I realized how much I’d missed the joy of having people here in the apartment. I’m sure it goes back to my Arab upbringing, the many occasions when my dad’s brothers and sisters came to our home and were always entertained so warmly by my mother. Whether it’s just a few close friends for an easy supper on the balcony in good weather or a more formal gathering in the dining room with as many as twelve people at the table, or a large buffet gathering of forty, I love to entertain, and that has helped me get through my periods of loneliness following John’s death.

  First and foremost, however, I know that work has been my survival mechanism, the crucial part of my healing process. I realize how fortunate I am at my age to be able to go on working at something I love, with people I admire, producing a program that reaches millions around the world.

  I do admit that getting up each morning at 5:00 is difficult—it takes a solid ten minutes before I can feel good about the coming day. During those moments I question why I keep on “keeping on,” relishing the fantasy of forgetting it all and going back to sleep. But I know how important it is to continue being involved with the world through my work. And when I am no longer employed as a broadcaster, I believe I will find other activities to keep me occupied.

  I will definitely want to contribute in some ways to Compassion & Choices, a national organization working to give people the right to choose to die with medical assistance. I so strongly believe in our right to choose when we die, if our illness is beyond any hope of bringing back a fullness of health. I know and respect those who argue that suffering is a part of living, but I do not agree and will do my best to speak out. I myself don’t want to suffer, nor do I want my family to see me suffer. When I believe the time has come for me to say farewell to this beautiful world, I will do so.

  Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s are two of the most terrible diseases marking this world, and against which I want to continue to work. I intend to do all I can to speak on behalf of patients who have been stricken with these physical and mind-depleting disorders, and to participate in the ongoing search for new treatments beyond the virtually nonexistent ones we have now.

  Years ago I began learning to draw and to paint with watercolors. Someday I’ll return to that. I love handicrafts. I’ve embroidered a number of pieces that are here in the apartment. I’d like to learn to quilt. And I’d like to learn more about flower arranging.

  I recognize that I have choices. Not everyone who is left a widow or widower has the opportunities I have, or the good health to go on looking for new avenues of expression. And for me, finding ways to stay involved with people has been key throughout my lifetime, not just recently. I’ve had to learn to be alone long before now, doing more for and by myself than I ever imagined doing. And I know that my sense of independence and my strength, for now at least, depend on my ability to continue to function in my various roles and with all of my responsibilities, free of reliance on others.

  Grief Counseling

  When John died, I didn’t seek assistance from counselors. I had talked so much and so often with friends and our children during his illness that I believe I had been grieving for years—grieving for the loss of the man I knew. Grieving for his spirit, his vitality, his energy, his laughter. By the time he moved to Brighton Gardens, most of that spirit had left him.

  My grieving came in the form of tightness—in my throat, in my every muscle. I could barely move my neck. I had headaches every day. I could sense the lack of freedom within me, the rigid feeling of having too much to do, too many decisions to make, and not enough time to think about what was going to happen. Months before John died, our son asked me, “So how will you be when Dad dies?” I’ll be okay, I said, knowing that I wouldn’t allow myself at that time to fully consider what or how I might be. I just knew I had to be strong. I couldn’t fall apart. I have too many responsibilities, both professional and personal. I have an apartment to care for. I have a tiny dog who depends on my love. I have grandchildren who enjoy my company. And, not least of all, there are all those people who, every day, turn on their radios to hear my voice.

  Six months after John died I attended a grief counseling group. I wanted to listen, to learn whether such a group could help me in ways I couldn’t imagine.

  On the evening I attended there were four participants, including myself, plus the counselor. We sat together in a small, warmly lit room, with only the occasional sounds of outside laughter drifting into our otherwise quiet surroundings. We introduced ourselves. One other woman was new to the group. She began by talking about the many losses she’d experienced over the past few years, how paralyzed she felt, at times wanting just to stay in her bed, under blankets and pillows, waiting for the days to pass. Another woman spoke of having recently received her late husband’s ashes, which she intended to take back to his home state the following week. He had died swiftly, from pancreatic cancer. The third talked of losing her mother, and the grief she went on feeling over the end of a relationship that had never been fully realized. Now, with only a sister to share her memories, she wanted to come closer to her mother, but wasn’t sure whether this was possible.

  When my turn came to speak, I talked of the long illness John had endured, how Parkinson’s had weakened him physically, but how he had continued to enjoy life up until the last few months, when his spirits began to sag. I spoke briefly about our marriage, the imperfections that we, like all couples, experienced, and then I spoke of his dying days, the most difficult ones I’ve ever lived through.

  Watching John in those last few days of his life, after he’d decided he would no longer eat or drink, after he’d lapsed into sleep, I confessed, had made me angry. Why hadn’t he been able to be “put to sleep”? Why did our laws infringe upon an individual’s choice to die when dying is inevitable, as it was in his case, within a few months?

  The more I talked, the more I realized just how angry I really am about his not having been allowed to go in a more dignified manner. And there, in that group, I felt safe declaring my anger. I was not being judged or argued with or presented with someone else’s point of view. I could simply express my strong feelings for the right to die as one wishes without having some politician or medical doctor talk to me about the “slippery slope” or putting people to death.

  This, it seems to me, is the greatest reward of attending a grief counseling group: knowing that you won’t be judged. We’re all so different in the ways we express our humanity, and we manifest those differences in the ways we express our grief. Some may sob, while others may sit stoically. Through my losses over the years I’ve learned to allow myself to feel the grief and, to a certain extent, share it with those I’m close to. But I’ve never wanted to fully express my sadness to others, even when my mother and father died so close to each other. Indeed, one dear friend chastised me for not allowing myself to open up and talk about the loneliness I find myself feeling.

  Instead, I cry when I’m alone. I talk with John about my sadness as though he were here. I tell him how much I miss him. I remind him—and myself—of the many wonderful experiences we enjoyed together, even through the tough times. I look at photographs, I sing songs we loved, I watch movies again that we watched together. All to be with him, to stay within arm’s reach, to believe he’s still here with me.

  For each o
f the others in the counseling group, there was an apparent need for outward expression of grief, but I didn’t feel that need. Perhaps it was because John had been ill for so long that when he died I was relieved, both for him and for myself. That’s an awful thing to say about myself, but it’s true. I was relieved. I would no longer have to watch his daily decline, see him struggle to keep food in his mouth, ache for him as he tried to move from bed to bathroom. His struggles became so acute that when he finally decided he wanted it over, I totally understood and supported his decision.

  Had the group been one I’d been part of for a long time, I believe I might have reacted differently and allowed myself to open up my deepest feelings. As it was, I couldn’t really share myself completely. At the end of the hour and a half, the group counselor led us in a five-minute silent meditation, breathing deeply, trying to allow ourselves to shake off negative feelings, to go back into the world with some peace of mind. Asked if I would be returning to the group the following week, I said I wasn’t sure. But I knew I wouldn’t. Certainly not because I didn’t like the people, but because I wanted to keep my thoughts and feelings inside myself.

  I don’t want to lose any of John, I don’t want to “get over” my deep sense of loss. Instead, I want to incorporate it into my everyday behavior. And I believe that living through the loss is helping me to become a stronger and more compassionate person, more self-reliant, less dependent on others. And helping me to take charge of my own feelings, to learn to live with them.

  As I left the building, I was happy to breathe in the cool night air. And happy to be alone.

  What’s Next?

  I wonder whether all those who lose a partner are asked questions about the future, such as Will you sell your home? Will you move to be near your children? Will you retire? I’m sure they all are, and I’m no exception, either in doing the asking or in being asked. This much I know: I’ll make no changes for at least a year. Over and over I’ve heard professionals make that recommendation, and it makes total sense to me. Even now, I’m not sufficiently in touch with my feelings to know what will be right for me in the coming years. For the moment, I know that I’ll want to keep my life moving along at a moderate-to-rapid pace. That’s what keeps sadness at bay.

  So I continue to enjoy the life I lead, one that is rich both professionally and personally. I go to the studio each day with gratitude and anticipation, looking forward to seeing and meeting with my co-workers, running over in my own mind the coming interviews and the latest news that might affect what I do on the air. All of that forces me to go on being aware of what’s happening in the world, and that in and of itself is life-enhancing, because it keeps me in the present, not dwelling on the past.

  Once those two hours on the air are over, there are office tasks to complete and errands to run, just to keep daily life going smoothly. None of us really likes change, and I’m certainly happy in my daily routine. However, at some point this will change. I know the time is coming when I will step back from the daily broadcast, leaving my on-air responsibilities to someone with fresh ideas and new approaches. I’m not thinking of complete retirement, but am starting to imagine what my life will be like when The Diane Rehm Show is no more.

  Many of us face this challenge at some point in our lives: how to rearrange a life that’s been professionally focused for so many years to one that allows us more time to choose how and where to focus our energies. It’s a time I’m beginning to plan for. One difficulty is that I’ve never planned any aspect of my life—it’s all just happened! So the idea that now I must begin to look ahead feels somewhat out of character. One part of me believes the next chapter will take care of itself, though talking seriously with financial planners can quickly divest one of that feeling.

  Even so, I do believe that something new will arrive that will involve my abilities, whatever they are and however they are seen by others. Something new and engrossing.

  Why this optimism on my part? I think, in part, it’s because John instilled it in me. At some of the worst moments in my career in broadcasting, when it nearly all came crashing down because of the chronic voice problems I began suffering in 1998, or the frustration became more than I felt I could bear, John would always reassure me that there would be better days ahead.

  That was, of course, when I was a younger woman. Now the question becomes how many more opportunities will be available to me as the beginning of my ninth decade draws near. I may be healthy and energetic now, but who can know what the future may bring? That, for me, is both the challenge and the excitement.

  Many people have asked me when I intend to retire. Now, at age seventy-eight, I can say I’m addressing the question.

  I can continue to host a daily two-hour NPR program until the end of 2016, when my contract expires, and I definitely plan to carry on through the next elections, and then find some other means by which I can make a contribution to society. I will take my days one at a time, dwelling in the richness of the work experience I still enjoy. One thing I am certain of is that when I do finally retire from my daily radio work, I will find other interesting activities to keep me busy.

  I’m reading the work of Ellen Langer, a brilliant and courageous Harvard psychologist, known as the Mother of Mindfulness. One of the many experiments she’s performed involved having eight men in their seventies live in a completely closed-off environment, as if they were twenty-two again. Bruce Grierson wrote about this experiment in the New York Times Magazine’s Health Issue late in 2014. The men lived for five days in a converted monastery in New Hampshire, surrounded by the music and the black-and-white television of the late fifties. Each man was physically and emotionally evaluated before and after the five days. They were encouraged to “be” the persons they had been years earlier. For the most part, they came away not only feeling younger but looking younger, sitting up straighter, walking taller, and actually seeing better.

  I take from this experiment what I think has been the saving grace of my work, my ongoing activities, my engagement with friends: I have remained involved. I go on getting out of bed very early every morning, I have a shower, eat my breakfast, get dressed, and then put on my makeup! Of course there are weekend days when I don’t have to bother with “dressing up” or putting on makeup, and, to be honest, on those days I rejoice. But I also know that I really don’t feel as perky on the weekends as I do on workdays. How I look, I realize, is how I feel!

  There are many widows and single women living in my building. Many of them are beautifully dressed, made up, and coiffed each and every day. Others take less care of how they look. What makes the strongest impression on me is realizing that those women, whether younger or older, who do take care of their looks seem more outgoing, more pleasant, even happier. Is it because they look better? Or do they dress and use makeup because they feel better when they do?

  Putting on makeup, shaping my eyes, using mascara and lipstick, all make me look better—that I know for certain.

  I also know that wearing high heels is part of what makes me feel good about myself. My friends think I’m crazy, and are forever saying things like “How can you stand to wear those high-heeled shoes?” Well, I’ve been wearing them since I was sixteen. I love high heels, perhaps in the same way my mother, who was much shorter than I am, loved wearing them. I walk well in them, I walk taller, and, more important, they make me feel good. Maybe taking the time and the effort to look better helps me to feel younger, stronger, more spirited. Whatever it is that’s propelling me to take the time to dress carefully, wear appropriate makeup, and fix my hair, I will keep on doing it.

  The other day I heard the writer Isabel Allende give a TED Talk on NPR. Afterward she spoke with the host, Guy Raz, about her attitudes toward aging. She spoke about saying yes to whatever comes her way, including love or even loss of life. In 1994, she wrote a memoir about the loss of her beloved daughter, Paula, who fell into a coma from the disease porphyria and never recovered.

  I was so
moved by her comments regarding women, who she said “become invisible as we get older.” We must, she said, “accept life and make the best of it.” She spoke of how the mind lives on even as the body ages. Our lives are infected with “the fear of suffering,” but in that fear we “lose out on the joy as well.” She talked of how she enjoys the body she has at this moment, at age seventy-one, and refuses to think of herself as frail. “Death is in the neighborhood, or even in my house,” she said, but in retirement, she argues, it’s passion that keeps one alive.

  Engagement and working with an open heart, wisdom, and spirit from Isabel Allende. Just what I needed to hear.

  Losing a Friend

  Shortly after John moved to Brighton Gardens in early November 2012, I lost Jane Dixon, my dearest friend in the world. She died in her sleep on Christmas morning. Jane and I had been the closest of friends for forty-five years. We met at St. Patrick’s Episcopal Church, where we both became very involved not only because of our children but because there was an active social life built around the church community.

  Almost from the day we met, we began sharing our stories with each other, she from Winona, Mississippi, where her father was the town doctor. Jane grew up knowing she was adored and cared for. She got an outstanding education at Randolph-Macon College and Vanderbilt University, then married a southern boy, David Dixon. But she yearned to break free from the segregated South, and so they moved to Washington, D.C.

  We were two young homemakers in the 1960s, both feeling the frustrated need to do “something more.” We talked on the phone practically each day, pouring out what seemed unattainable dreams we had for our futures, realizing that, eventually, our children would be on their own.