Gratitude Graces Loss

Unconscious Intimacy

My husband died a year ago from Alzheimer’s Disease. Right afterward, I wanted to go with him.

Following his death, I gathered photos for a slide show before the funeral. Two months later, I returned to the PowerPoint file, selected my favorite pics and put them on my laptop as a scrolling screen saver. There I saw something about me for the first time.

Looking at pictures brought waves of solace and a hint of safety, soothing me whether I was putting appointments in my calendar, uploading documents for insurance claims, or checking email for bills. Every morning for a long while, I treated myself to looking through more pictures and adding one or two to my screen saver folder.

One morning six months into widowhood, I saw a detail repeated in the pictures. Whether we were standing side by side, leaning into each other seated, alone or in a group, I had my hand on my soulmate’s chest or upper belly.

What is that?

I had no memory of doing that on purpose. Wouldn’t you just put your arm around his back and stand side by side or just hold his hand? Intuition suggested it was some kind of unconscious thing to be close.

I love you? Maybe.  A half-hug? Sorta.  A statement of ownership? Okay.

My guy was six feet tall and I just five foot six. Practically speaking, my shoulder fit right under his armpit, and I would twist sideways into a 45-degree angle towards him. His arm would hold me up against him and one of my arms would go around his back and the other hand would land on his chest.

That pose is there from our earliest photos together right through our last weekend trip before he became bedbound. Standing in front of the ocean. Having dinner in a favorite restaurant. Gazing down at a new grandchild. In an Alaskan fishing boat. Over and over.

Why am I just seeing this now in my grief?

As a rabid scrapbooker, I must have had these photos in front of my nose dozens of times. My guy’s pose was a little less uniform, but generally his head tilted forty-five degrees towards mine and his eyes flashing mischief.

Let’s snuggle. I want you. You make me happy.

As Alzheimer’s ate away my guy’s brain, the angle of the tilt lessened a bit, and the playful expression around his eyes morphed to one of confusion. But my hand remained on the front of his body.

You are not alone.

I still look at those photos, one after another after another, showing me how much we loved each other. There is intense longing, a remembrance of our physical joining, amazement at the places we went. The things we did. The Great Barrier Reef.  Mt. Arenal in Costa Rica. Motorcycles in Sedona. The temples in Kyoto. And the legacy of our research on managing uncontrolled cancer pain.

And now past the one-year anniversary of the loss of my darling husband, it dawned on me that my heart knows it’s time. Time to let gratitude bring a kind of grace to my grief.

Look. Look at what an amazing life you had together.

A life together of Carpe Diem. Every. Single. Day. Each of us loving the other more than themselves. Finding purpose in our work, adventure in our travels, creativity in our souls. Once young and passionate, spontaneous and driven. We had grown old, gotten wiser, found community and became comfortable in our own skin.

And yes, we had to move in with the kids, and yes, the last year was hell, but he died at home in our bed, sleeping next to me, without any sounds of distress. The way we both wanted.

And I, turning over to see he was gone, laid my hand onto his chest.

I love you.

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