The Long Goodbye

They say that every time you recall a memory, the process of remembering destroys it and what you end up remembering is a reconstruction. A facsimile. The memories you hold so dear, the ones you think you could step into like real life, those are the ones you’ve thought of so many times that they aren’t real at all. A copy of a copy of a copy.

That’s what life was like for a long time. And in a sense we were always on the same path. He, every day, a copy of a copy of himself. And me, every day, living the same day and simultaneously revising the memory of him, losing a bit of the original. Especially towards the end, each day, the same care-taking routine. Washing him, feeding him, managing the visitors, the prayer schedule, the medications, reading to him, watching television with him, checking to see if he knew who people were, if there was something he remembered or had to say, checking with his doctors. Each day, the same. 

The man and the memory of him, both becoming a copy of a copy of a copy. But it’s funny, I can’t help but care for someone when I spend so much time taking care for them. It’s innate. In a lot of ways it was actually a lot like having a baby again.

When Herbert was diagnosed with a brain tumor, they gave him just six months. But as we all know, he held on for almost seven years. He was always a stubborn man.

He was not a complicated man, but over the years, loving him became complicated. There was that period, months long, where he lashed out screaming over little things, anything. And I couldn’t tell, I didn’t know, was it the tumor? Was he present and aware and angry at what was happening to him? And then I'd remember him beating me, or one of our kids, and I'd have to ask if it was just him.

I know I’m not supposed to talk about things like that. I know. But I took care of him for seven years, a lot longer than that actually. So I guess I've earned saying what I want to.

But that’s why I mentioned memories. Somehow the anger when he was sick was different. Not excusable, but it had an excuse. And to be fair, that phase didn’t last that long compared to the whole thing.

Tommy--sorry, Tom. Tommy doesn’t like being called Tommy anymore. Keeps telling me he’s twenty-something, a grown up. Anyway, he was telling me about some therapy they are doing with traumatic memories and psilocybin, like from the mushrooms. You take psilocybin and remember a traumatic experience, with someone present, a scientist or therapist or something, I can’t remember. It’s supposed to make it just a memory and take away a lot of the feelings of pain and trauma so you can process it. Deal with it. I guess the cancer was a little like that, but much, much slower.

It’s funny how life changes. Back when we got married, taking care of a husband and kids was expected. There wasn’t really another path until after the war. Maybe you know I was a nurse. I guess I ended up taking my work home with me like some of you kids do. Even after the war, you were still expected to take care of your husband and kids, even if you did work. And I had plenty to do, we had eight kids. Eight. We had kids until the doctors told me if I had anymore it’d kill me. 

Well, we were Catholic and the church didn’t condone birth control. Our church told us that using it was a sin and we couldn’t. Herb was furious. It was the last time that we went to that church. We didn’t go back to church for a long time, not until we found one that let me use the pill. He saved my life. He defied God himself. I loved him for that.

And when we met, oh, he was charming, good looking. We’d go to the movies together. He had a crush on some bombshell. I don’t remember her name, but he’d tell me I was prettier, even if it wasn’t true. We’d go to dinner. He was funny. You grandkids, you don’t know that, but he was funny. You all remember him as the man on the sofa when you were so little, always watching football with a can of beer. You’d come to him and he’d tickle you, and you’d escape, and you’d come back, and it would go on until he tickled too hard and someone ended up crying. But you always came back again.

I remember Kristi telling me a memory she had of Herbert. He called her over and showed her a picture of Charles Schultz in Time magazine, I think? He’s the creator of Peanuts, with Charlie Brown and Snoopy. Anyway, apparently he told her that Charles Schultz made twenty five million dollars a year. That might not mean a lot to someone if they didn’t know Kristi, but she was an artist. She was always drawing. She told me that it had meant so much to her that he just knew who she was, something about her, that he, in his limited way, was trying to communicate with her and encourage her. That stubborn man. He reached right out of the abyss and sent a signal that he cared.

New memories. Then I remember the old ones and they’re changed. They change because of how I feel now, they change because the world is different. His hard edges seem worse from today’s perspective, but he seems kinder because I spent so much time taking care of him, thinking of the good things, imparting his kindness with deep meaning and dismissing his moments of anger and cruelty as the tumor. 

And that’s what it comes down to. Every day, he was a copy of the person he was the day before, for both of us. A little further from the man he truly was. A fuzzy version of the original where I could remake the image to see a bit more of what I wanted him to be and love that, because I had to, because I was his wife, and because I had to take care of him. And maybe that made it true.

It probably would have been better if he had had six months. Long enough to say goodbye, but not so heart-wrenching, watching the decay day after day, year after year. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. It was bad for everyone, even him, especially him. For so long, he was aware enough to know he was falling apart. To be consciously aware of what he used to be able to do, but unable to do those things, only to be able to miss them. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. By the end, everyone was just waiting for him to die. Even him. It’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. It makes me feel evil. It’s a terrible thing that makes you relieved to see someone you love die.

I loved Herbert. I started off in love with him. And I loved him when he beat me. And I loved him when he beat his kids. But I wasn’t in love with him anymore; it was an obligatory love. Kids today wouldn’t understand that, except maybe in the way a mother loves a child that she doesn’t like, if that makes any sense. Maybe I shouldn’t have loved him at all, but I did. I didn’t know how to do anything else. I didn’t know it was possible to do anything else. 

And you know, now he’s dead. A lot of it is relief, after so long. Relief at it all being over. And they tell me that that is natural and normal and I shouldn’t feel guilty about that, but I’m Catholic. But part of the relief is that in the end, I could fall back in love with him. When he was so degraded, so broken down that there was almost nothing left of the original man there, through caring for him or conditioning or societal expectations or whatever, I was able to fall in love with the memory of him, and bless that body, and send it off. Him being gone means it can stay that way. 

I know you don’t understand. I can’t imagine what it makes me look like to you with your modern upbringing and ideas. But I love him. I’m in love with him. And I’m glad he’s gone, but I miss him too.