I remember the last time I lifted him from his bed. I hoisted his small body into the lift and to the air; his limbs and head hanging limp like a rag doll. I wheeled him into the sitting room where I had everything ready for the screening. The wheelchair seemed to swallow him, a wisp of a body more of bone and loose flesh than anything else, his head way too large now and out of proportion, barely able to balance itself on a slackened neck.
I sat next to him. I held his hand. We watched ourselves, younger and healthier then, filled with joy, laughter, and so much hope. He saw his sister and brother, our family and friends. We watched ourselves embrace and kiss beneath a stand of ancient redwoods near the sea, in the city by the bay.
He wept. I choked back tears as I held him tighter, tenderly securing my arms around him, one last time.
Everything then, was for the last time.
What came next, and through our tears, caught us both off guard. We had forgotten that following the wedding day video, was footage from our first date many years before, taken by a friend as we attended the annual Renaissance Fair in MarinCounty. How young we looked, then. How beautiful he looked. I had forgotten how beautiful he once was. I heard his voice again, clear, strong, yet soft as silk. I saw his healthy, strong body move freely and fluidly. I saw the exuberance of life in his pale blue eyes, hope for the future on our younger, innocent faces.
Innocence is a marvelous thing. It is good not to know too much of what lies ahead - how abruptly the world can end - the edge and drop oftentimes closer than one would like.
We wept together. We wept for those days, for happier times. We wept over the loss of his body, his voice, and our future. But most of all, we wept for the strength of our love. We had not been afforded the gift of time, of hopes and dreams, of growing old with one another. But rather, we were blessed with a love that had endured and blossomed in the hardest of times, sustained us through disease, and even at death, was a bond greater than any other we had ever known. As we often said, our time may have been cut short, but what we had, together, most people do not find in a lifetime.
I wheeled him back to bed. His blue eyes were red and swollen. I kissed him. He fell asleep quickly and peacefully.
In watching him sleep, I felt a small wave caress my body. This one was gentle and warm. It rocked me, easily, pooled around my ankles, then slipped out to sea.
For John
Excerpt from the memoir, In the Heart of the Lily, copyright 2007, Jan Baumgartner. Previously published on OEN Feb. 2007.
Content cannot be reprinted without the express permission of the author.
A native Californian, Jan Baumgartner is a freelance writer currently living in Maine. Her background includes scriptwriting, comedy writing for the Northern California Emmy Awards, and travel writing for The New York Times. She has worked as a grant writer for the non-profit sector in the fields of academia, AIDS, and wildlife conservation and anti-poaching for NGO's in the U.S. and Africa. Her articles and essays have appeared in numerous online and print publications in the U.S. and internationally, including the NYT, Bangor Daily News, SCOOP New Zealand, Wolf Moon Journal, Media for Freedom Nepal, and Banderas News in Mexico. She's finishing a memoir about her husband's death from ALS and how travels in Africa became one of her greatest sources of inspiration and hope. She is a Managing Editor for OpEdNews.
I cried twice this week. The first time was when I read the article about how
"Vanilla" the dog passed away. The second time was when I read this memoir.
Jan, I've read a couple of your other articles and they were all beautifully written like this one. You have a knack of conveying emotion/mood very well.
I can tell you loved your husband. Life gives us it'a share of difficult times
doesn't it? I can't help but think that someday we will be reunited with loved ones in some shape or form. That would be a very joyous day indeed.
Best wishes,
Bob
by
Bob Gormley (1 articles, 0 quicklinks, 3 diaries, 937 comments)
on Friday, June 6, 2008 at 7:12:19 PM
thank you. I cried too over the loss of Rob's beloved pet. And while I weep fewer tears of sorrow these days, I still weep grateful tears at my good fortune and the love I had with John. That will never go away. And yes, from happenings that I cannot fully understand or explain, we will indeed be with all of those loved and lost one day. Thank you for being so supportive of my words - you have no idea how much that means. Jan
by
Jan Baumgartner (52 articles, 137 quicklinks, 10 diaries, 252 comments)
on Friday, June 6, 2008 at 7:36:54 PM
Those are the words from the song by V. Vysotsky, the Russian poet and the song is about the loss. There is always a loss, but there is also a gain. And vice- versa. I read a novel once by a Russian fiction writer about a time when immortality became common. People could just go to the ' youthification' station and become younger. Only one man remained mortal-the actual inventor of the process. He put a slogan over his desk,'Don't you even dare to touch my Death!' A journalist asked him ,'Why do you think that way?' And he answered,'When you gain you lose. Immortality means losing the connection to nature. We are not a part of it anymore.'
Looks like your husband John was a wise and honorable man. And he never lost his connection to nature. There he is still as a sentinel.
I had just recovered from a very bad sickness. Wish you the best and take care.
In solidarity
Mark
by
Mark Sashine (53 articles, 19 quicklinks, 250 diaries, 3574 comments)
on Friday, June 6, 2008 at 7:54:45 PM
Gary: if memory serves me well, I think I get the gist of your comment from old SNL reruns. In any case, I got a good a laugh!
Mark: as always, beautifully put. I tend to be verbose, not by choice, and am forever in awe of those (incl. your Russian poet) who succinctly, with so few words yet with so much meaning, create a clarity that I can't seem to convey in under 2,000 words. Something to aspire to. Hope you're well, Mark.
by
Jan Baumgartner (52 articles, 137 quicklinks, 10 diaries, 252 comments)
on Friday, June 6, 2008 at 8:01:44 PM
And I've known that since you first told me you checked out my QuickLink submissions. But tonight after getting up for a late snack, I read your story and learned you were married in the city by the bay.
My husband grew up in San Francisco and worked on the Water Front during the General Strike of 1935. Orphaned at 9, he lived in foster homes and became a Postal Telegraph messager where he delivered telegrams to the scabs who were locked in. I never visited San Francisco until we spent a week in 1968. As he showed me around town, I recognized most of the street names because he often told of life as a paper boy. Bill was 77 when he died 15 years ago last month.
We spent another week in the Los Angeles area, where 3 of his children lived. The youngest we left back in Chicago because he worked with his dad, and someone had to mind the store.
I wish I could write half as well as you. Best I can do is substitute a journal entry on May 19 as a memorium, where I write him about how things turned out since he left. In time I sold our "pea patch" and little do I have to say about the Senior Towers I live in. All the neighbors we knew are still my friends. And after I assure him that the money is holding out, I do what we always turned to. Originally, he was a Republican because he lived in Richard Nixon's House district. After Reagan made it clear he wasn't high on Social Security, Bill became a super activated Democrat. His language toward Republican politics would help some of our more partisan bloggers learn stronger words.
Peace, Margaret
by
Margaret Bassett (31 articles, 1969 quicklinks, 30 diaries, 1284 comments)
on Saturday, June 7, 2008 at 12:57:41 AM
Margaret. I love how rich and full your stories are. I'm glad that you had a chance to see S.F. It is a colorful city and a part of my heart will always remain there. I look forward to reading your May post and it is always a comfort to connect with someone who understands, who has "been there" and knows of this profound sense of losss - and equally as important - how resilient we are and how life continues - sweet and joyous, still. That is a powerful tribute to the strength of love. Thank you, Margaret.
by
Jan Baumgartner (52 articles, 137 quicklinks, 10 diaries, 252 comments)
on Saturday, June 7, 2008 at 9:42:07 AM
article on living in Mexico a few weeks back. About how I rode my bike for 3 months around the periphery of Mexico after a girlfriend of mine from South Africa died in a car accident in western Kansas in early January 1995.
She worked for a company as a regional sales manager, and we met in San Diego during a educational exhibition. Lust quickly turned into love and I moved her to the bastion of hypocrisy (Boulder, Co.), where I had lived for over 18 years previous, in late November.
Since she had never driven on ice covered roadways before in her life, I tried to explain before she left on a week long sales trip that you have to do everything that is not a natural reaction. By not applying the brake and steering into the skid to regain control of the car.
My worst fears were realized when late one night I received a phone call from the Kansas State Police department that she was involved in a serious one car accident. The officer explained that I-70 where a small knoll had a bridge spanning a county road underneath it, had allowed the continuous snowfall from the day, be melted ever so slightly from the sun as it appeared briefly only to have the storm clouds quickly obstruct its rays once again. Yet enough heat generated to melt the accumulation creating black ice, causing many small accidents, and the KSP reluctant to close the road.
It being past 11:00pm, and the ice not visible from the hills opposite side as traffic was approaching at normal speed caused a tractor trailer truck to jack-knife, and the driver was attempting to straighten out the low-boy trailer by driving east in the west bound lane, when she crested the hill and began to skid, doing everything I told her not to do. The car hit the corner of the trailer just behind the front left tire-well and door, where the car frame separates the windshield from the door window. Causing it to buckle under and into the drivers portion of the car striking her. The car proceeded to spin and hit the trailer on the passenger side, then bounced off the trailer and into the ditch on the opposite side of the road.
When emergency crews arrived more than a half hour had passed and the doors would not open. They could not get her out of the car because of multiple fractures, till another half hour and a welding torch was needed to cut the frame apart to extract her from the vehicle.
Being more than 20 mile to the nearest clinic in a small town and not having the surgical staff, she was transfered immediately from the clinic to the next largest city which was more than 50 miles away. Unfortunately the night was overcast and a helicopter could not fly her to the hospital.
She died in route from a .5 centimeter laceration in the arch of the aorta. The next day I went out to collect her belongings and look at the car. seeing my worst fears had been realized of her lack of experience in driving on ice.
The hardest phone call I had to make in my life was to her parents, who kept asking me questions of how and why. I tried to explain to them that she was crossing the Great Plains and the distance is equivalent to driving from Cape Town to Pretoria and almost back again. They had a year earlier had their only son become a parapalegic from a hang gliding accident.
While in Chiapas I was crossing the Sierra Madras during the middle of the insurrection and couldn't believe my eyes of the homes that had a tank round blasting them to smithereens. Many of these homes had white flags draped near the doorway, to signal the occupants were neutral, and an pall quiet was hanging in the air. It took me 9 days between my last phone call to my parents to let them know I was all-right. They thought I was attempting to kill myself on this crazy bike trip after having been robbed and beaten just north of Creel, Chihuahua which I mentioned in a comment I posted in the Perestroika article by Mark Sashine.
My mother had given me up for dead and was thankful I had called when I did, as she was getting ready to file a missing persons report with the US Embassy in Mexico City.
After I made it back to Colorado, 5 weeks later. She asked me not to pull any more stunts like that again, as I have disappeared in Africa and South America on my earlier wanderings around the globe for a couple of weeks before communicating with them.
Two years after my Mexico adventure, my mother was diagnosed with cancer, that over 7 years slowly suffocated her, though she had never smoked in her life. I blamed myself for this tumor growth, to my past adventures, causing her much worry.
by
Stanimal (0 articles, 4 quicklinks, 23 diaries, 668 comments)
on Saturday, June 7, 2008 at 12:13:54 PM
I am deeply sorry for your losses. I understand, and I feel for you in knowing what those losses feel like, and the void they leave behind. They never truly go away - more like a phantom limb - an ache of loss and of deep love. Somehow, I find that comforting.
I could picture, or feel, your story so well - on many levels I can't imagine your suffering and what you had to deal with following the accident. Our experiences, while very different, instantaneous death as opposed to a prolonged suffering, ultimately deal us the same blow. And yet, and I'm sure and you might agree, that when all is said and done, love prevails and makes even the darkest moments in life worth it.
I have driven the Cape Town to Pretoria route, and pretty much all over S. Africa - it is a place with great heart and soul despite all the complexities.
I wish you well. You've had an amazing life - not always how we hope things will turn out - but it is ours, alone, and we need to cherish and protect that. You take care - and as always, I am thankful for your comments and thoughts.
by
Jan Baumgartner (52 articles, 137 quicklinks, 10 diaries, 252 comments)
on Saturday, June 7, 2008 at 1:23:17 PM
life comes to us and with hopeful grace through us......
What I long for is the eternal. To become again part of that which is the woven whole. Here in this life given, what I have are opportunities to know where I am. To be there and to be always be clothed in it. What I fear most is that I will not notice.
In hurt lies the fear of the burn, when instead, it is truly just a scortching oil, necessary in the preparation for the feast of acceptance. What makes us whole is this acceptance, simply and entirely, what is right here for us.
The sweetness of the blade is not in its glow, but in its cut.
I trust your John, as he laid aside his spent vehicle, knew in his deepest how woven you two were. And are.
I raise a glass in toast to you and your John. 'Clink'.
peace
by
mikel paul (11 articles, 1 quicklinks, 7 diaries, 445 comments)
on Saturday, June 7, 2008 at 2:59:49 PM
Tibetan monks and mythologists talk about little deaths, like sleep, meditation, and changes in our path.
The big deaths, the hard edged ones, are harder on those who stay behind.
I almost died in a car accident two months ago. It changed my life. I'm reading a book now, byneuroanatomist, Jill Bolte Taylor, My Stroke of Insight about the stroke she experienced. It describes how the stroke became a wondrous gift for her. Who woulda thought it?
Another author, Elmer Green, wrote a massive tome Ozawki Book of the Dead, on his experience caring for his wife, Alyce, after she developed Alzheimers. I knew her before and she was an amazing woman. But for seven years he cared for a woman who never recobnized who he was.
Death comes in strange ways. It can hurt. But death does not always come with biological termination. Death comes with change. Hillary and Bill experience an increadibly painful death this week. I learned at the annual TALKERS talk radio conference that Rush Limbaugh "operation chaos" supporters went through a painful death.
But what you describe is so evocative and beautiful. While no-one wants to lose a loved one, the process you went through might even be called enviable in its gentle transitions. Or maybe it's just your gift for taking what others describe in ordinary words in describing them in extraordinary ways.
I'm glad you're here at OEN, doing what you do. And glad to hear you are healing. Mexico was muy bueno por tu.
by
Rob Kall (858 articles, 3987 quicklinks, 343 diaries, 1823 comments)
on Saturday, June 7, 2008 at 9:03:11 PM
to you! Just kidding. Took awhile to learn the differences between addressing someone as "tu" or "usted."
Your words, Rob, are poignant and oddly enough true. I don't believe a few years ago that I would see myself and my experiences with taking John through years of crippling illness and death as "enviable." But as time goes on, I cherish those moments and hopefully, gained a unique compassion and premature wisdom that came through that life-altering event.
While many days are painful, still, and will continue to be, there is a strength that is passed on - not only through love - but through a loved one. I felt it, I know it, and with great humility and gratefulness, I carry John with me. And for that, I am twice as strong and determined to live life fully and with any grace I can muster. Muchas gracias!
And, I'm very glad you're still here.
by
Jan Baumgartner (52 articles, 137 quicklinks, 10 diaries, 252 comments)
on Saturday, June 7, 2008 at 9:37:27 PM
and another to you, a crazy wonderful and crazy beautiful person. Your memoir of John's death and today's postscript offer such hope and encouragement - thank you. J
by
j lh (0 articles, 0 quicklinks, 0 diaries, 2 comments)
on Sunday, June 8, 2008 at 10:35:00 AM
Wherever you are on your road trip, how I miss our near daily bebidas unnaturales, our saludos to life and the richness of those days. So here's to you and su esposo y hijas - until our next B.U. UnaJuana
by
Jan Baumgartner (52 articles, 137 quicklinks, 10 diaries, 252 comments)
on Sunday, June 8, 2008 at 12:26:26 PM
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