It was beautiful, how he was with her. They had been married for 63 years. The last 35 of those years MS had slowly, painfully whittled away at her until, finally, she was left paralyzed and bed-bound. He cashed in everything he had to cash in, and sold off everything he could sell off, except the house. He built that house for her. He even named it after her. The sign hanging over the driveway entrance read, “Terra-Lanie.”
In 63 years he had never doubted her, never doubted that he was meant to be with her. When her health got so bad that he couldn’t take care of her anymore, he refused to allow her to go into a nursing home. Everything he’d cashed in and sold off was for her. He used that money to hire nurses and to make her house suitable for her broken body. He bought her a hospital bed and pushed it up next to his bed. At night he held her hand while they slept. Every morning when he woke he kissed her cheeks. Every morning she smiled and whispered her love to him.
In 63 years she had never doubted his love, never doubted her own love for him, but in the last 35 years she had struggled more with guilt than with disease. He deserved better. He gave her so much and worked so hard, just for her, and she couldn’t give him anything. She couldn’t even reach her hand out to him anymore. In the beginning she had argued that he should place her in a nursing home once her health got very bad, but he wouldn’t hear it.
For the last 10 years his heart had been steadily deteriorating. He had to wear patches, take pills, eat a special diet, follow a special exercise program, and see a doctor twice a month. He’d had open-heart surgery, more than once. Every valve in his heart was artificial. Most of the time he had a dull ache deep in his chest, and he didn’t know if it was from his heart condition or from sorrow for his wife’s failed health.
She knew he was only hanging on for her sake. It was plain for any fool to see. She loved him for it and pitied him for it. She wasn’t really in much pain, most of the time. There were a lot of pills, but they did the job well enough. Most of her pain came from seeing him suffer. She heard the nurses talk. She knew that, from a medical stand-point, she was much healthier than he was.
He fought death and clung to life all for her. He wouldn’t die first and let her end her days in a nursing home. She deserved better. He occupied his time reading to her, she liked the heart-warming stories best, stories with a feel-good ending. He laid next to her and they watched the morning news talk shows. He refused to allow the nurses to feed her. That was his job, taking care of her in all the ways he still could. He rarely left her side. His joy, he said, was in her eyes. He only left their bedroom to cook for her, to do laundry, or water her plants.
In her younger days, she had kept a beautiful flower garden. She had planted each flower tenderly, talked to them, sprinkled them with water, and petted their velvety petals. Her flowers flourished and she beamed with pride. She had kept pictures of her garden for the days, she had known were coming, when she wouldn’t be able to tend to them anymore. Now he tended her garden, and brought her pictures. On truly spectacular days he video-taped the garden and the sunset for her. Then, laying side by side, they would watch it, her feeble hand cradled gently in his.
She watched as his health faded and the color passed slowly out of his cheeks. His smiles were always genuine and he was never anything but sweet while he was with her. But she could hear how gruff he was with the nurses, how angry he got with the doctors when they called. The thought of failing him made her heart ache. She loved him so much and all he wanted was for her to be able to live out her life in the home he built for her.
When she made her decision he could see it in her eyes. That morning when she whispered her love to him he heard the finality of her words. He sat, all morning, at her side and when the time came he cradled her in his arms, kissing her cheeks and whispering his love into her hair. It was peaceful, the way she went. There was no jerking or shuddering gasp, no final attempt to cling to life. She smiled up at him until the very end.
Everyone had known that her death had broken his heart so it came as no surprise when, three weeks later, one of the artificial valves in his heart gave out. According to his wishes, he was laid by her side, next to her flower garden.
In 63 years he had never doubted her, never doubted that he was meant to be with her. When her health got so bad that he couldn’t take care of her anymore, he refused to allow her to go into a nursing home. Everything he’d cashed in and sold off was for her. He used that money to hire nurses and to make her house suitable for her broken body. He bought her a hospital bed and pushed it up next to his bed. At night he held her hand while they slept. Every morning when he woke he kissed her cheeks. Every morning she smiled and whispered her love to him.
In 63 years she had never doubted his love, never doubted her own love for him, but in the last 35 years she had struggled more with guilt than with disease. He deserved better. He gave her so much and worked so hard, just for her, and she couldn’t give him anything. She couldn’t even reach her hand out to him anymore. In the beginning she had argued that he should place her in a nursing home once her health got very bad, but he wouldn’t hear it.
For the last 10 years his heart had been steadily deteriorating. He had to wear patches, take pills, eat a special diet, follow a special exercise program, and see a doctor twice a month. He’d had open-heart surgery, more than once. Every valve in his heart was artificial. Most of the time he had a dull ache deep in his chest, and he didn’t know if it was from his heart condition or from sorrow for his wife’s failed health.
She knew he was only hanging on for her sake. It was plain for any fool to see. She loved him for it and pitied him for it. She wasn’t really in much pain, most of the time. There were a lot of pills, but they did the job well enough. Most of her pain came from seeing him suffer. She heard the nurses talk. She knew that, from a medical stand-point, she was much healthier than he was.
He fought death and clung to life all for her. He wouldn’t die first and let her end her days in a nursing home. She deserved better. He occupied his time reading to her, she liked the heart-warming stories best, stories with a feel-good ending. He laid next to her and they watched the morning news talk shows. He refused to allow the nurses to feed her. That was his job, taking care of her in all the ways he still could. He rarely left her side. His joy, he said, was in her eyes. He only left their bedroom to cook for her, to do laundry, or water her plants.
In her younger days, she had kept a beautiful flower garden. She had planted each flower tenderly, talked to them, sprinkled them with water, and petted their velvety petals. Her flowers flourished and she beamed with pride. She had kept pictures of her garden for the days, she had known were coming, when she wouldn’t be able to tend to them anymore. Now he tended her garden, and brought her pictures. On truly spectacular days he video-taped the garden and the sunset for her. Then, laying side by side, they would watch it, her feeble hand cradled gently in his.
She watched as his health faded and the color passed slowly out of his cheeks. His smiles were always genuine and he was never anything but sweet while he was with her. But she could hear how gruff he was with the nurses, how angry he got with the doctors when they called. The thought of failing him made her heart ache. She loved him so much and all he wanted was for her to be able to live out her life in the home he built for her.
When she made her decision he could see it in her eyes. That morning when she whispered her love to him he heard the finality of her words. He sat, all morning, at her side and when the time came he cradled her in his arms, kissing her cheeks and whispering his love into her hair. It was peaceful, the way she went. There was no jerking or shuddering gasp, no final attempt to cling to life. She smiled up at him until the very end.
Everyone had known that her death had broken his heart so it came as no surprise when, three weeks later, one of the artificial valves in his heart gave out. According to his wishes, he was laid by her side, next to her flower garden.
4 comments:
Hiya! I've been away for so long that I don't think we've actually met! Ver' nice to make your acquaintance...
Okay, I'm a bit out of practice with the whole crit thing, so please be patient with me until I get back into the swing of things...
I hope I've got this right, but I think you've pulled off a pretty neat trick here - despite the sadness of the story, emphasised by the sense of frustration and helplessness of the husband and the guilt felt by the wife, the final emotion the reader (or at least, me) is left with is a feeling of... um... fulfilment. I don't know if this makes any sense at all... it's a bit like a sad song sung to a lively tune - the words are sad but the story itself highlights the triumph of love over all adversity, and leaves the reader with a satisfied feeling of 'they made it!' rather than 'awwwwwww!' Very nicely done. Of course, if I've got the wrong end of the stick, then feel free to hit me with it.
There was just one line that jarred the image for me... where you say that he pushed the hospital bed up to his own bed (or words to that effect) - I think 'their old bed' or 'the bed they used to share' works better, purely because I imagined them sleeping together before the MS kicked in, and the use of 'his bed' seems to dissolve that picture for some reason. But then again, I've just reread what I've written, and it pretty much sucks as far as constructive critisim is concerned, so feel free to completely ignore everything! Great read though. I'm going now!
Wow! Thanks :D
We actually have met... on the old site. My handle there was Zynthia.
I actually was going for the, "It's so sad that all of this happened, but look how sweet and loving they were to each other, and isn't it touching that even through all of that they never stopped being the most important thing in the world to each other."
Also this was about letting go of an old wound. I worked for this couple, and I was there when she died. I spoke at both funerals, and I was devestated when they died.
It was good to write about it. It felt good to lay out how loving they both were, and how wonderful he (in particular) was. He was a course gruff old man, and he was snippy with pretty much everyone, but I think that was mostly because he focused all of himself on her and had very little left over for the other people in his life.
This story is how I remember them.
It's a lovely story and I'm afraid that what I have to say won't be much help to you because it's kind of vague. The language is very impersonal for such a deeply personal story, and it keeps me,as the reader, at a distance. I can't say "change this and this" and it will be perfect. Maybe that's my limitation as a writer, but I still feel that some slight changes could really invite the reader into the story in a deeper way. If I'm not making sense, just go back to the first part where I said it's a very lovely story, and obviously told from an appreciative heart.
I agree with both Weather and Roust though I don't think the language in most of the story is a failing of any sort. The distance that Roust refers to is what keeps this from seeming maudlin actually. I liked almost all of the story. The ending is what disappointed.
You have a beautifully written story that interestingly told considering the subject, maybe it's just me but I had expectations of a surprising conclusion. Something that made this more than simply a dying couple seeing each other through the dying process. This deserves a better ending, it really does. :)
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