My father reached for my mother’s hand, but as he did, she extended her hand to me instead. She gave my hand a tight squeeze and looked at me for a long time before kissing me on the cheek. “I love you, honey,” she said simply, and then she took my father’s hand and followed Paul up the steps into the church.
A minute later Paul was again at the bottom of the church steps. “Are you ready, Mr. Herbert?” he asked.
“I’m ready,” I answered, dreading what was to come next.
He turned to the pallbearers and gave them a quick nod, their signal to carry the casket and the gurney up to the top of the steps. When they had done so, he guided me up the steps behind them. He gave another quick nod, and the two men in front opened the double doors to the church and put down the doorstops. They carefully lifted the front wheels of the gurney over the doorsill and rolled it about ten feet into the back of the church, just behind the last row of pews.
I stepped into the relative darkness and the cool interior of St. John’s and saw hundreds of heads turned towards the back of the church. I stared in amazement as I looked from one side of the church to the other; not a seat was to be found. The church was filled to capacity, and dozens of people stood in the back and halfway up the right-hand aisle.
The pallbearers started to walk up the center aisle. I fell in step behind them.
This is like a wedding procession
, I mused,
but without the music and without the bride. Well, the bride is here
, I thought bitterly the next second.
It’s just that she’s dead.
We walked up the center of the church towards the choir stalls and the altar, and I tried to ignore the sounds of people crying, whispering, blowing their noses. I tried instead to concentrate on the creaks the old wood floor made under our feet and on a tiny squeak coming from one of the wheels of the gurney. I looked straight ahead, focusing on the foot of Peg’s casket, knowing if I made eye contact with the people who pressed in on either side of the aisle, I would lose what little control I still had. But in spite of my best efforts, the sounds of mourning filled my ears, and I couldn’t avoid seeing the contorted faces, the unchecked tears and the shaking heads.
No
, I thought, halfway down the aisle, wiping away tears,
this is no wedding procession.
Two and a half hours later, after Peg’s funeral service at St. John’s and her burial at Pinelawn Memorial Park, I sat in the limousine with my mother, my father, Peg’s mother and her three sisters on the way back to Beth and Dave’s house for lunch. We sat in silence, watching first countryside, then strip malls and then suburban neighborhoods slip past our blackened windows.
As I looked out the window, I became conscious of the wedding band on my finger and slowly began to turn it against my pinkie with my thumb. I looked down at it and remembered how excited I’d been when Peg had first slipped it on my finger. I remembered how I had looked down at my hand hundreds of times for weeks after we were first married, marveling at how it looked and staring at it in wonderment. I thought about how it had never been off my finger in the nine years Peg and I had been married. And then I began to wonder if it still belonged on my finger, because I had just buried everything it had ever symbolized.
What do I do with you?
I thought as I stared at the gold band.
If I take you off, what does that look like? Makes it look like I couldn’t wait to get you off, that’s what. You know that’s not true, and I know that’s not true, but no one else does. But why on earth should I wear you? Because if I take you off now—not even half an hour after I’ve buried Peg—people won’t understand. That’s why. But if not now, when? And why then and not now? Nothing’s going to be any different next week or next month or next year, except maybe next week or next month or next year, people will understand and won’t get upset. But that’s not enough of a reason for me. Sorry, but it isn’t. I hope you understand, Peg.
I looked at Peg’s mother; she was still staring out the opposite window. Then I carefully pulled the ring off my finger and slid it into my jacket pocket.
The day after Peg’s funeral I went back to work. Not because I was ready to, but because I had to. I knew if I stayed home, my thoughts would automatically spiral inward and downward, until the pain of losing her would become unbearable.
I dismissed the idea of moving back to our house in Huntington. I worked for a living, and my children needed someone to take care of them. They needed a mother. So they got mine. And that meant I had to live with my parents if I wanted to be with my children.
The following Tuesday, August 26th, after the kids were in bed, I decided to go through the paperwork that had accumulated since Peg had gone into the hospital and which I had been throwing into the top drawer of the guest room dresser. The drawer was filled with hospital bills, insurance statements, lab reports, receipts for everything under the sun, the normal mail from home, the cards I’d removed from the bulletin board in Peg’s room, and scores of unopened condolence cards and letters.
I didn’t have the energy to pore over the hospital paperwork or the mail from home, so instead I pulled together the unopened cards and letters, sat down on the edge of the bed and started to read. Most were typical sympathy cards with typical personal messages—”We were so saddened to learn” or “Our thoughts and prayers are with you”—touching and nice to receive, but…typical.
However, a few really stood out. A neighbor from across the street wrote that she had not only prayed for the repose of Peg’s soul, but had also asked Peg to remember us here on earth. She said she believed that those we love continue to have powerful influence on our lives after they die, and she was certain Peg would help me in death just as she had helped everyone in life by being a wonderful wife, mother, friend and neighbor.
Another neighbor who had recently come to the States from England wrote that Peg was the prettiest, funniest, most life-enhancing person she had met since moving to America. She said she was always amazed at Peg’s immaculate house and her beautiful needlepoints and wondered how she managed to do everything so perfectly and still be a loving and caring mother. She felt blessed to have known Peg and was certain that life on Dewey Street was going to be much duller without her. She closed by assuring me that, hard though it may be to understand now, God has his reasons. He must, she said, or else the world is a very cruel place indeed.
An assistant vice president at Chemical Bank where Peg had worked wrote that Peg was not just respected by her colleagues for her intelligence and candor. More importantly, he said, she was loved for her humanity and her warmth. He knew Peg would be sorely missed by her Chemical family, but he could not imagine the magnitude of her loss to me, my children and my family.
One of Peg’s closest friends said the letter I was reading was the last of several she had written to me since Peg’s death. The others she had discarded because they were too laden with sorrow and pain. She said she had never told Peg how much she meant to her or the extent to which Peg had influenced her life, but she wanted me to know. She said she would always remember Peg for her sense of perspective, especially in times of crisis, her sense of humor, her good judgment, her ability to separate reality from image and the important from the unimportant, and her constant availability to her friends.
A friend of one of Peg’s sisters whose husband had died two years earlier warned that the coming weeks and months would be terrible for me and others who loved Peg. But she had some advice to offer—advice based on what she had learned after her husband’s death and which had more than once pulled her out of depression and self-pity. She said that although my children and I must not allow ourselves to live by guessing at what Peg would want us to do, we should remember that Peg would never want to watch us suffer or be unhappy. Instead she would want us to celebrate her life and her spirit by immersing ourselves in life and all it had to offer as soon as we possibly could.
One of Peg’s sisters wrote that she had always marveled at Peg’s consistency in that the dreams Peg expressed while playing childhood games and in teenage fantasies were the same ones she worked towards and attained as an adult. She credited me with enabling Peg to become the person she always wanted to be and said that I had helped her in ways no one else could have. She ended her letter saying that if we could measure quality in life, we would find that Peg had experienced a lifetime’s worth in the short time she had. I should have no regrets, therefore, she said, and I should at least take comfort in that.
But the most memorable letter of all was from a man who used to be the sales manager for one of our largest customers and who had lost his wife to cancer several years before. His letter was dated August 19, 1980. Cal said that although he never had the pleasure of knowing Peg, he knew me, and he knew of my respect and love for her, so he knew she must have been a very special person. He wished that he could give me a simple formula for peace of mind or tell me that my adjustment would be easy, but he knew this simply was not possible. But life does go on, he assured me, and he was certain I would find each passing day to be a little more bearable.
He then told me of an elderly friend of his mother’s who, having outlived two husbands, gave him some advice when his wife died that he treasured to this day. She told him he had just finished a good book and he should close it and put it on the shelf. Then he should open a new book and begin reading from it as soon as possible. He would always remember passages from the old book, she said, but they would become dimmer as he became absorbed in the new book. He admitted that his mother’s friend’s advice was easier said than done, but he had found it invaluable nevertheless and hoped it would be of value to me.
I sat on the edge of the bed holding Cal’s letter in my hand, staring at his words, wondering what he was trying to tell me. Was he telling me to find someone to take Peg’s place as soon as possible? No, that couldn’t be. Cal would never think like that. But then, what
was
he saying? I read the words again. “You have just finished reading a good book.” That had to be a reference to his just deceased wife and, indirectly, a reference to Peg. And if it was, what else could “open a new book and begin reading from it as soon as possible” mean?
I shook my head in confusion and frustration.
Well, the letter’s beautiful and worth saving
, I thought,
even if I don’t know what it means.
I got up off the bed and collected what I’d read. Ever the one for order, I stacked the cards so all the spines were to the left, smaller ones on top, larger ones on the bottom, and jogged them into a neat stack. I stacked the letters in size order too and threw away all of the envelopes. All except Cal’s. I read his letter one more time and then carefully slid it back into its envelope and placed it on top of the letter pile. I opened the dresser drawer and pushed the rest of the paperwork aside to clear a space for what I’d read, cards in one pile, letters in another. At least now, I reasoned, I had a clear line of demarcation between read and unread.
But as I was about to close the drawer, I saw two groups of yellow lined pad paper protruding from under a hospital bill in the unread pile. One group consisted of several pages held together by a paper clip, while the other was considerably thicker, legal-sized and stapled. I pulled the smaller one out first and saw that the handwriting was Peg’s. In the left-hand margin she had written days of the week beginning with Wednesday, and next to each day she had written a paragraph. I realized I was looking at a diary of sorts, a day-by-day accounting of her stay in the hospital, beginning with the Wednesday she had checked into Huntington Hospital. I went back to the bed, sat down and started to read.
Wednesday—To Dr. Goldstein for exam and consultation. So young. Only thirty-three! Took a blood sample. Low count on white, red and platelets. He tells me I have leukemia. He wants me in the hospital. Amy Bennett took me back to the Emergency Room. Impossible to describe my feelings as they ran from hysteria to confusion to disbelief. How can I be so sick? He says my chances are good.
John brought Jen up. Wonderful therapy. John looked like he was going to break into tears any minute, but I didn’t cry at all. Just enjoyed the chatter. Her million questions. Her hurried hugs to tell me that she’s frightened too. The little guy couldn’t come. Too late for him. What if tonight in kitchen with Linda was last time I’ll ever see him? Can’t think like that. Mustn’t!
Dave and Beth and the folks know, and they’re all trying to keep things normal with the children. Folks took kids home with them.
I can’t sleep. I just cry and cry. Seems like no one wants to answer my call button. Two transfusions of blood.
Thursday—I wake up crying. I feel so alone. I question and keep thinking how I’ve always felt so damned blessed. Everything. School, marriage, my beautiful babies that weren’t possible. Sooner or later I knew I’d pick a wild card.
Father Bob came in to see me. He was consoling and promised many prayers. I asked him to pray for Mom because I know her faith will be so shaken again.
Dr. Goldstein came to talk to me. He outlined everything I have. AML…acute myelogenous leukemia. I have an excellent shot because of my age and physical condition. The therapy…DAT…is straightforward. Kill all the bad cells and at the same time, all the good cells and come back from there. The complications and infections could kill me. In the meantime, lots to look forward to—nausea, vomiting, mouth sores, no hair, fever, etc. One day at a time.
The day is a torture of tests. Blood, a tube into my vena cava, spinal tap, X-rays, EKG, more blood tests. Finally I can lie flat on my back for two hours.
People are mobilizing all over. Dave put John in touch with a Dr. Werner at New York Hospital. People calling with other recommendations. Blood drives at Chemical and in the neighborhood. Beth and Dave organizing all sorts of things. I keep breaking down but got good reports on my behavior during all the tests. I’m pretty cried out today so I guess they thought I was being brave.