My Husband's Last Words And The Road To Recovery

My husband’s last words to me were: “Drive carefully.”

It was night at the hospital and my daughter and I were leaving to go home for a couple of hours.  At that stage, he could no longer speak, so he wrote those words in a special notebook. He didn’t write that he loved me or ask me to take good care of our daughters. But when I looked at his words, I understood that that was what he'd meant.

Living in the suburbs for many years first in the US and later on in Israel, driving was a central part of our life. Still, my husband never completely trusted me, and suspected that when I was preoccupied or upset, I didn’t pay enough attention to the road.

He was right.

This instruction had a clear and literal meaning. He just wanted to make sure that we would make it home safely at that dreadful day. But I feel that those seemingly simple words have a broader, even symbolic meaning.

For me, his words implied that he expected me to move ahead, but to be cautious. At the time, focusing on the world around me was a real challenge. It took a while to be able to make sense of what was there, and then to bring myself to make plans for the future.

Throughout the years, whenever we went on vacation, my husband and I took turns driving. Now it was only me; no one would take over when I got tired.  

Many believe that last words sum up who the person is. In the case of my husband, I feel that his last words illuminated an important aspect of his personality.

When he was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer five months earlier, my husband told me that he had made a decision to be a role model to our daughters during his illness. I am convinced that this choice made it easier for him to come to terms with his imminent death. He even decided on a motto for this "project."  Paraphrasing a well-known political saying, we were expected to fight cancer as though there was no death, and to make peace with death by being prepared.

For example, since my husband was the one responsible for our finances, we went through all the books and wrote down the names and numbers of important contacts. We were prepared. But we kept the information in a folder with the cheery name, "After 120. " We were hopeful.

Although my husband refused to call it a battle, we lost him to cancer at the age of 55. It was nine years ago this week. To this day, whenever I get into my car, I think of his warning, especially if I am not at my best. It always cheers me to remember that even when he knew that he was dying, my husband did not miss the opportunity to take care of us one last time.

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PS: The inspiration for this post was an episode of This American Life about last words.

"To live in hearts we leave behind/Is not to die.” Thomas Campbell

The essay appeared in the Times Of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/my-husbands-last-words-and-the-road-to-recovery/

“Tis A Fearful Thing To Love What Death Can Touch”

September 11, 2013

My husband’s last words to me were “drive carefully.” It was night at the hospital and my daughter and I were just leaving to go home for a couple of hours.  At that time he could no longer speak so he wrote those words in a little note book. He didn’t write that he loved me or asked me to take good care of our daughters. But when I looked at his words I understood that this was what he meant.

Living in the suburb for many years in the US and later on in Israel, driving was a central part of our life. Still Tzvi, my husband felt that when I got distracted or upset,  I didn’t pay enough attention to my driving. By making them his last words, Tzvi added  significance to his warning making sure that indeed I was being extra careful  at the time of grief.   

Tzvi’s instruction had a clear and literal meaning, he just wanted us to get home safely.  But I feel that these seemingly simple words have a broader, even symbolic meaning. 

In the past whenever our family went on vacation Tzvi and I always took turns driving, now I was the only driver, literally and metaphorically. I was left in charge and it became my sole responsibility to take care of my family in and out of the car.  

By instructing me to drive carefully Tzvi implied that he expected me to move forward, yet  at the same time he was warning me to pay attention. Six years later these words seem straightforward, but at the time it was quite impossible to focus on the world around me. It took time to be able to make sense of what was there, and then to commit to what lay ahead.

The inspiration to this  post was an episode of This American Life about last words which I listened to today 9.11 as I was skating in the park.

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/114/last-words

In the prologue Ira Glass states that last words often sum up who the person is. In the case of Tzvi  they illuminated one important aspect of his personality –that of a family man: the husband, father and educator. When he was diagnosed  he told me that he wished to conduct himself as a role model to our daughters.  He chose as a motto a paraphrase on Rabin’s declaration of intent: “we will fight terror as though there was no peace, and will make peace as though there was no terror.” In our case it was “we will fight cancer as though there was no death, but we will make peace with death by being prepared.”

We lost our battle, but it always cheers me up to think that even when death was imminent Tzvi did not miss the opportunity to take care of us one last time.

PS.  Although I heard the epitaph which  I chose for the title today on This American Life, it is part of a poem by the great  Jewish poet Judah Halevi, 1075 – 1141

“Tis a Fearful Thing

‘Tis a fearful thing
to love what death can touch.

A fearful thing
to love, to hope, to dream, to be –

to be,
And oh, to lose.

A thing for fools, this,

And a holy thing,

a holy thing
to love.

For your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.

To remember this brings painful joy.

‘Tis a human thing, love,
a holy thing, to love
what death has touched.” 

 Judah Halevi