On My Own

by Diane Rehm

  The other night, after a happy dinner with friends and a brief visit to a crowded party, I dreamed I was riding a bicycle with a young man at my side. He was clearly an admirer, but I didn’t recognize him. We rode a long way together. I felt the wonder of fresh air in my lungs, and surprisingly I experienced no fatigue at all. At the end of our ride, I said out loud, “I did well, didn’t I?”

  Does it help to go to parties? I had thought it might, so, though I left early, I knew how important it was to be there, to keep on living.

  This morning I was standing in the bathroom, applying makeup, when without warning my back went into spasm, something that hasn’t happened in years. The pain traveled instantly down both legs. I almost screamed. I got on my knees, crawled to my bed, and turned over on my back. I pulled my knees to my chest to try to ease the spasm. John is not here to help me. I am alone.

  My immediate feeling was one of self-pity, but that was not going to help me. I crawled back into the bathroom, raised myself carefully to reach for the medicine cabinet, and took two Tylenol. I then made my way back to the bedroom and got onto the bed, where I spent the rest of the day, lying flat on my back. The body remembers. It’s a statement I’ve never forgotten. I’ve done so well this Christmas, going to Christmas Eve services at the cathedral, being with friends for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners, participating as fully as possible in laughter, conversation, thoughtful exchanges. Now I confront the reality of the afterward, the time away from the happy faces and joyous songs, the time of being by myself. My body reminds me that all the cooking, baking, singing, and socializing cannot distance me from myself. My back spasm calls me back to the reality of loss, forcing me to remember that grief is complicated and long-lasting, forcing me to give attention to my deepest feelings rather than try to stay detached from them. The body remembers.

  Grief

  Throughout this period since John died, I’ve been trying to define for myself exactly what grief is. The Oxford dictionary has many definitions, including “mental anguish or sorrow…bereavement or bitter regret or remorse.” I realize I am in the process of experiencing all of these things. I would add sadness, loneliness, a sense of isolation, self-imposed or otherwise. And, to be honest, some anger, a resentment at having been abandoned.

  And what can I do except live through all these things? Continue to put one foot in front of the other. Carry on. Behave normally. Act as though I’m still whole, when a central part of me, which is what John has been for most of my life, is gone.

  My daughter and grandchildren wanted me to join them in Boston for Christmas, so I wouldn’t be alone. It was a dear suggestion on their part, but one I declined. What I most wanted to do instead was to wake up on Christmas morning in the bed John and I had shared for so many years, the bed I could now imagine our waking up in together, wishing each other a Merry Christmas, perhaps making love before rising, or just holding each other.

  But I grieve for those very memories as well, since long before he moved into assisted living, John had moved into another room so that each of us could sleep peacefully. My sadness is filled with the longing for all those nights when we did sleep together, side by side, in the loving warmth of each other’s body. In other words, I am grieving not only for the loss of John but for the loss of the beauty that, before his illness descended, we had together.

  I am grieving for our youth, for our love, for our happiness, even for our sadness together. The grief is for the joy we experienced when I gave birth to David and then to Jennifer, the immense joy and pride we had in watching those two beautiful children grow into such extraordinary adults. Even now, when I hear inside me their voices or those of their children, I am saying, “I wish John were here.”

  Yesterday as I was leaving the apartment to go to a friend’s house, I heard John say, “Now is there anything you’re supposed to take with you?” And there was. I was taking baklava to my friend, which otherwise I might have forgotten. Is the fact that I hear John’s voice part of the immediate grieving process? Or will that question, which he asked so often as we were leaving to go out, always be with me?

  And what of the duration of grief? Do some of us “get over” the loss more quickly, depending on the circumstances of the death and the duration of the illness? I know John wanted to die. He was finished with the loss of dignity he was experiencing. And therefore I understood and supported him and wanted his wish granted. But the fact that he wanted to die—and I felt strongly about his right to die—doesn’t diminish the grief I felt when he did die, and continue to feel. Death is the ultimate finality, and there is no turning back.

  Some, hearing the circumstances of John’s death, will view it as an act of suicide, the deliberate taking of one’s own life. But I see it as an act of relinquishment, of giving in to the process of dying. He wanted to die. He was ready to die. He could not physically “take” his own life, but he could, as he did, “relinquish” his life, by denying himself food, water, and medication. Should my grief be any less intense because it was his own choice? Should my sadness be lessened because he made his own decision to leave his body behind?

  What intrigues me is that John so often talked of “the journey ahead.” Indeed, his own book is titled Onward Journey. He saw this earthly life as just one part of our being, our coming into existence and our travels toward the end of mortal life as part of a much longer journey, toward something not necessarily God-filled but nevertheless holy.

  As I reread parts of his book, his fables, his poetry, I realize how much of his thinking I did not understand. The older he grew, the more complicated he—and his writings—became, somehow almost secretly focused inward. By the time his book was published, Parkinson’s disease had so weakened his vocal cords that those attending the book party Jane and David Dixon gave for him could barely hear him speak. When, however, I hear him speak to me now, it is with the strength of his young voice, the very strong voice that when we first met I regarded with such disdain. Now I yearn daily, almost hourly, to hear it again.

  With whom, and how, am I to grieve? With my children, who have lost their father? With friends, who ask, again and again, how I am managing? How do I share the grief that comes in waves, or that wakes me in the night? To whom do I say, at those moments, how I long to see John, to hear his voice, to speak of my sadness? It is to him that I want to speak. Only he, after all our years together, can understand, and yet he is not here to hear me.

  My back is hurting. It is part of my grief. If he were in this room, he would talk with me about the physical aspects of my grief. He would remind me of all the winters when, anticipating the memories surrounding my parents’ deaths, I would experience terrible colds and take to my bed. He would encourage me to rest, to give in to the sense of loss, to allow my feelings to fill my mind rather than to push them away. And now these thoughts are of him.

  At one and the same time I dwell on the caring he showed me in our better moments and the loneliness I felt when he chose to shut me out. The memories come together, the goodness, the love, the caring merging with the silence, the rejection, the sense of hopelessness. And what I realize is that that is exactly what my entire life has been about.

  The New Year

  F inally, relief. The holidays are at an end. The Christmas tree, the wreath, the cards, the poinsettias have all been put away. The tissue paper, ribbons, pie plates, cake rounds are all back in storage. But far more important than that, I will no longer have to listen to people’s condolences. They are all kind and solicitous, but each one reminds me that any joy I feel must be tempered by sadness and loss. It’s hard to be authentically anything or anyone as I encounter the sadness in people’s faces as they remind me, again and again, how hard “the first Christmas” is. I know. I feel it. I’m really trying to move beyond it.

  After all, it really isn’t the first Christmas I’ve been without John. Last year, though I spent a good part of the day with him at Brighton Gardens, it was a day of melancholy, quiet
, quiet words, watching him sleep, feeding him a mediocre Christmas dinner. I was already “without” him then.

  So as the New Year begins, how shall I “be”? I am moving not only beyond the “first” Christmas without him but into a brand-new year, with many challenges and opportunities lying ahead. I am going to be much more involved in Compassion & Choices. I will continue to speak about, specifically, John’s death and, more generally, my belief that each of us deserves the right to choose how we die. After I retire, I will travel to other cities to participate with citizens in that debate. This is an opportunity and, indeed, an obligation I feel I must take on in the wake of John’s death.

  I will continue to be involved with USAgainstAlzheimer’s, hoping that we can take Trish Vradenburg’s play, Surviving Grace, to even more cities. At the same time, I will do all I can to assist in the Parkinson’s disease effort, hoping to bring more attention as well as more research dollars to both diseases. And of course, at least for the immediate future, I’ll be going on with the daily radio program that means so much to me.

  I assume I’ll be able to continue with all these activities because my health is good. I have no abnormalities (that I know of—but who can ever really know?), my energy level remains high, and I’m surrounded by good friends of all ages. As time goes on, I observe some of my older friends declining, while my younger ones grow more interesting to me. In fact, I find myself reaching out to friends and neighbors more than I ever allowed myself to do earlier in life. I’m going to expand my home entertaining as much as my strength and my pocketbook allow.

  Outside it’s drizzling and very gray. There are no people here, just Maxie and me. There is no pressure. I make no social engagements. I feel at peace and spend the day quietly, anticipating my return to work tomorrow.

  But thinking about the future without John by my side helping to test or debate various prospects, either with the station or elsewhere, makes me anxious.

  Over the years, I’ve relied so much on his advice and sound judgment. I’ve been so blessed with the incredible opportunities I’ve had, working with people I’ve enjoyed (with a few exceptions, of course). Now, as I look ahead a year or two, I’m both sad and excited. I want to continue to contribute in meaningful ways to the conversations that I believe this country must have, but how much will I enjoy my life away from the daily involvement with journalism?

  After Carl Kasell, NPR newscaster for so many years, stopped doing his daily broadcasts on Morning Edition, a job that demanded his rising at 3:00 a.m. on weekdays, he said to me and others, “Sleeping in is overrated.” Through all these years I’ve complained about early rising being the bane of my working life. Will I feel as Carl did, once he was free to “sleep in”?

  Tragic Death

  I attended a funeral yesterday, one of the saddest I’ve ever been to, and so traumatic—that of a young man, thirty-four years old, who had apparently taken his own life. His mother and father sat devastated in the front row, weeping inconsolably, as friends, relatives, and colleagues spoke of their son’s brilliance, humor, and compassion. The synagogue was filled to capacity. I hadn’t known this young man, but I felt very deeply the desire to give support to his parents, who are friends of mine. The eulogies were poignant, filled with tears but also funny stories. The speakers remembered his childhood pranks, shared meals, long conversations, all-nighters. One young woman sang his favorite song. And after each remembrance, the parents rose and embraced the presenter, still sobbing.

  And then, just a day later, on January 7, 2015, came the horrible bloodshed in Paris. First the killing of twelve people, well-known cartoonists and editors at the offices of Charlie Hebdo, a magazine known for its satirical portrayals of religious leaders of all faiths. Members of the police force were also murdered. The two killers were brothers, alleged Muslim extremists. A manhunt ensued. Paris was on lockdown and extremely fearful the next day. The tragic finale came two days later, when another terrorist killed hostages at a kosher grocery store on the eve of the Jewish Sabbath, and the two brothers were finally shot and killed by French police as they ran from a warehouse where they’d been hiding.

  That the funeral for the young man who had apparently given up on his life was followed the very next day by the siege in France transformed my first week back in the office after a ten-day holiday from a time of feeling rested into a time of sorrow, horror, and disbelief that our world, both near and far, is in such chaos. We think we can manage our lives in neat and orderly ways, taking care of daily responsibilities, moving through each day with such calm assurance, and then, suddenly, we’re reminded of just how fragile life really is.

  I grieve for my friends who’ve lost their beloved son. I grieve for them because I know them. But I also grieve for those hostages, and for everyone else caught in such frightening and fatal situations—people who had no inkling of the disaster awaiting them. Is safety something we can no longer take for granted, even as we walk out of our own doors into our own neighborhoods? Will the people of Paris believe they can ever be safe again? Will the peaceful Muslims of Europe fear that they will now become targets of worldwide wrath, even though they played no part in these horrific acts?

  Last night, in the wake of the terror in Paris, I went to dinner at the home of Jewish friends, cookbook author Joan Nathan and her husband, Allan Gerson—I was the one non-Jewish person there. I loved hearing those around me singing the prayerful songs, followed by the words of the Torah. At one point, I asked my hosts and fellow guests whether they believed that what had happened in France might change their thinking about the use of deliberately offensive language, if perhaps we as citizens of a more connected world should approach satire and the use of ugly writings and drawings more cautiously.

  What followed was a fascinating and spirited discussion, with many differing views. There were absolutists regarding freedom of speech. Others believed our freedoms might have gone too far. Still others argued that magazines like Charlie Hebdo should temper publishing extremely offensive material targeting those in the Islamic world. At the end, people thanked me for raising the question, for leading those around the table to seriously consider such matters, and for the opportunity to consider their own views as they heard from others.

  Part of me is glad that John wasn’t here to have witnessed what happened in his beloved Paris, the city of his birth. He would have been struck by disbelief and heartache. And he and I undoubtedly would have carried on a fierce discussion about First Amendment rights. His belief was firm: there should be no infringement on those rights, no matter the consequences. However, he would at the same time have acknowledged the unpredictability of human behavior—behavior that can so easily lead to such terrible acts of violence.

  So often he and I debated the value of the law in various cases, especially those where I felt human values were being ignored and the letter of the law was being followed too strictly. In fact, I went so far as to argue that a non-lawyer should be a sitting member of our Supreme Court, to bring into the debate the human impact of the court’s decisions. As a broadcaster, I strongly uphold freedom of speech. However, I’m also concerned about how far that freedom will take us, especially when it allows individuals to threaten, frighten, humiliate, or even drive people to suicide by the use of bullying language.

  We’re in a new world of super-rapid communication, where texting and instant messaging can have disastrous results. The Charlie Hebdo incident reminds us—once again—that words have power: power to affect us in ways that can enlighten, or power to lead us to carry out acts of destruction. I wish I could be discussing this vital issue with John. Perhaps even he would be modifying his position, given this new world we’re all living in.

  Reality

  Perhaps I’m idealizing him. But over and over again I remember how John always cared for me when I wasn’t well: after an operation, experiencing pneumonia, hepatitis from a blood transfusion, even just watching over me when I was down with a bad cold or flu. He wa
s always there. He was a better caregiver than I was.

  I remember walking with him on the streets of a peaceful Paris, staying at a beautiful hotel on the Seine, the bateaumouche we enjoyed the first day we arrived. We held hands during the entire cruise, feeling as lucky as two people could ever be. Lovely memories. I try to hold on to them, even as I watch the world around me change from peaceful and safe to threatening and dangerous.

  For the most part, the past is a comfortable place for me to dwell. It’s so easy to recall the lovely moments, when we were happy together. I choose not to live in the negative past. And I remind myself that there’s a certain relief to living on my own, making my own decisions, caring for myself. I relish my independence. I take satisfaction in the way I handle my finances, paying bills on time, watching what I spend, making sure I’m prepared to deal with my taxes. That’s all part of a new world for me, and I’m pleased I can carry on.

  Yet I still struggle with my feelings of loss, loneliness, and neediness. What I’m realizing more and more, especially each time I come down with yet another bout of cold or flu or sinus infection, is just how dependent I was on John, and how needy a person I am. Several counselors with whom I’ve dealt over many years have helped me to realize how the lack of understanding and sense of love from my mother may have been part of what led to my seeking out someone who would and could care for me, and provide a permanent and reliable shelter. And certainly, in the beginning, that’s precisely what John did for me, going back to that very first date!

  Even in the earliest years of our marriage, with his professional workload at its maximum, John did his best to provide that sense of caring and compassion. But later on, my constant need for a demonstration of love and reassurance may have become more than he could handle.