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.

--

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/

"Man Plans And God Laughs": Home Renovation And Bereavement

 NOV.06.2013 - 12:26 AM

After our two daughters had left home my husband Tzvi and I decided to downsize-- to move from our  house in the suburbs to a smaller one in town. It was going to be a happy move, an opportunity to be centrally located while still having a house with a garden.

In a green neighborhood  just outside Tel Aviv, we found the perfect house. It was an old semi- detached that needed a lot of work: in Israeli terms "old" means about 60 year old. We were thrilled, we knew that this was the place where we would spend many happy years together, and in February we signed the contract.

 However, as the Yiddish proverb goes “man plans and God laughs,” a week after we committed ourselves to buying the house Tzvi was diagnosed with lung cancer. Still we worked on the plans for the  new house together, it was our light in an otherwise very dark period. Originally we planned two studies, and  I remember my heart sinking when he told me one day “I don’t believe that you would need that second study,” I didn’t want to hear it.

On Tzvi’s last day in July he was busy saying good bye to friends and family, he also signed the final papers for the sale of our house in the suburbs to make sure that my move  to the new house would go smoothly.

Taking possession of the new house occurred on the day when I got up from the Shiva, and two days later, on the first day of August, the renovation began. I was grateful for this project, it forced me to be sharp and stay focused in order to take the necessary decisions and make the right choices. I was very fortunate because the architect and the builder, who were aware of my plight, were kind and generous. They took special care of me and we worked together in perfect harmony.

 I have not seen renovation mentioned as a prescribed medicine for bereavement, but for me, (although I was still angry with Him for laughing at our plans) it was “God sent.” It is almost a cliche as the word "renovation" has within it the root "renewal." Indeed as we demolished and built new walls gradually turning  a building site into  a home, I realized that my shattered life was also taking a new form. It gave me new hope for the future.

This was the beginning of my recovery, and  in less than three months, at the end of October, I moved into my new house. I remember waking up on that first morning -- boxes everywhere,  telling myself “this is where my new life starts.”

Each year, around this time,  when I mark another anniversary to my house, I reflect on my circumstances in the summer of 2007, and am thankful for the project and the kindness of people who helped me get back on my feet. But most of all, like Virginia Woolf, I am just happy to have “A Room of One's Own. “