What To Do When There’s More To Look Back On Than Forward To

Sometimes I’m overwhelmed with sadness.  Not about time passing and realizing at 82 I’ve lived more than half my life.  Only joking!  My span will not be biblical.  But—my losses have piled up; and I wonder sometimes why I plod on while the lives of two I love have been cut short in very different ways.

My grandchild was nine—almost ten—when he was killed.

Now I was never the type of woman who was anxious to have a grandchild.  I desperately wanted children and I was blessed with three.  If they decided to have children, fine; if not, also fine.  Then my daughter got pregnant; and, yes, vomited on me when she was in labor.   Then she was wheeled away from me.  I was called to her side only after she delivered.

The nurse held out my grandchild for me to hold.  Did I remember how?  I tentatively took him in my arms and knew for the first time in my life a love so perfect it was overwhelming.

Well, you’re saying, didn’t she marry, didn’t she have children?  Yes, but it’s different, isn’t it?  When you marry, there are complications, such as, can you really live with this man for the rest of your life and why is he complaining already about your cooking?  When you have children, you worry.  Am I bathing him/her correctly?  Is he/she getting enough breast milk?  How will they do in school?  What will they make of their lives?

When you have a grandchild, it’s pure, unadulterated love. You exist to love him as you have never loved anyone before.  And thus it was with Ilan.

Was he a perfect child?  Well, almost.  I ended up doing what I vowed never to do and that was babysitting him when my daughter went back to work.  There were tough moments, but there I was, out pushing him in the stroller, taking him to the playground—a playground I can no longer bear to see.

Soon my daughter got a babysitter, but I used to have him almost every Saturday night and into Sunday morning.  We would read books and play kitchen and go outside because he wanted to engage in any sport that could be played in a backyard.  How sad I was when he learned to read on his own and would no longer cuddle as we read.

Ilan was growing up to be a beautiful child, and I saw my life continuing through him.  And that’s when a semi smashed into my daughter’s car, killing Ilan and disabling her.  That was really the end of my life because from then on there was nothing to look forward to.  I will go through the motions until my time ends because it’s the nature of a human animal, but I have been crushed.

My second loss was my husband of fifty-eight years, not that the last eleven years have really consisted of a marriage.  In 2013 my husband had a stent replacement and was given Metoprolol by a doctor who really couldn’t have cared less what strength he prescribed.  Because of the effect of the drug, my husband fell three times, the last time he had a brain bleed and a C4 fracture and that was it.

I thought then and there I was going to be a widow.  But he recovered from being semi-comatose and was moved to a rehabilitation facility.  I still remember when the doctor came to me on the very first day to tell me that my husband would never recover—mentally.

So it’s been eleven years now, watching things go wrong for him, taking him to doctors, getting him more tests, making sure he’s well taken care of in assisted living.

I’ve gotten used to his disabilities, but the one things I miss is his sense of humor.  He no longer has it anymore.  We used to joke and laugh.  He used to get my sarcasm.  But now my words just go over his head.  Every night I listen to a recital of what he’s done that day, including what he’s had to eat.  I know he’s depressed.  I know he wishes things were different.  So do I.

I’ve had a much better life than I ever expected.  I like to think that my life started when I married.  My childhood was miserable. Graduating college, I took a teaching job; and, believe me, I sucked at it.  I was preparing for another career when I met my husband.  Two months later we married.  That was the start of our whirlwind existence.

My husband was—perhaps type A.  I didn’t see him as such, but he knew what he wanted and he went after it.  His success took me around the world to so many wonderful places, meeting such interesting people.  I could never have imagined such a future for myself, and I have been blessed.

Also on the home front things have worked out.  I had my career, which my husband not only fully supported but bragged about.  Our three children are productive individuals and all great cooks.  So I suppose I’ve fulfilled everything that needs to be done in a life span, except prepare my house for sale should I crap out early.

Oh, how I wish things were different.  But they’re not.  So I plow on.  No choice.