The Sportswriter

[Obligatory rant: How can a top-flight hotel chain—and I consider Marriott to be a top-flight chain—not have wi-fi in all its rooms in this day and age?! I'm incensed that I have to actually sit at the desk to surf the 'net and write this post. I'm so spoiled!]

On my drive yesterday, I began "reading" Richard Ford's The Sportswriter. This book is very beautifully written. Mr. Ford has a way with words that I would love to emulate. There are so many phrases that I want to remember, to write on a special "aha" page in my journal (if only I could find which box it's packed in!).

I'm only into Chapter 3, but already I've determined that I need to go back and listen to this book again, with a pen and paper beside me to copy down these incredible phrases.

The main character lost a son to a disease several years before the starting point of the book. (The problem with audio books vs. hardcopy books is one can't see the actual words to learn the spelling and be able to easily look up words one is unfamiliar with—I can't remember the name of the disease, although it begins with "r".)

Listening to the protagonist talk about meeting his ex-wife at the cemetery on the anniversary date or talking to his new girlfriend, a nurse, about the death, got me thinking about death. My work colleague, Joy, just lost her husband to cancer (lymphoma, I believe) a month ago. It was sudden; I believe diagnosis to death was less than six weeks. My new friend Tani lost a daughter five years ago in an automobile accident. John died ten years ago in June, which seems like forever and like yesterday.

These three data points coming together at this time in my life have made me ruminate on death from the survivor's viewpoint, and specifically the losses of one's children versus the loss of one's spouse.

I only know about losing a spouse, and pray that I never know about losing one of my children or, even worse for me, my grandchildren. (Sorry, Tyler and TJ, but you know what I mean. I live for those babies. No insult intended.)

I think losing one's child would be absolutely unbearable. Six months ago Frank's friend, Wendy, took her own life after learning her teenaged son would never recover from his night of drugs and alcohol. How could she do that? How could she not do that?

I think the only thing that would keep a parent going after the loss of a child would be if there were other children. To lose an only child—that would just be the worst. I can't imagine how a parent or a marriage could survive that loss.

I've also thought often about how blessed John and I were to have twenty-one months together post-diagnosis. I determined on the day of diagnosis, with the high Gleason rating and the knowledge of the inevitability of his illness, that I was going to make memories for his children. I did everything in my power to lay the framework and enable them to take advantage of the time and opportunities I was offering them.

I've said many times that John died a happy man. He had just turned 60 and should have had many more years on this earth. But he and I both found in our marriage exactly what we'd been looking for all our lives, and he accomplished his goals. (To be a good citizen, to defend his country, to be a good parent.)

The time we had enabled me to get everything set up financially and legally. There were no speed-bumps after his death, no obstacles to just going on with life. everything was taken care of. Someone whose spouse dies suddenly or after a short, unexpected illness doesn't have that freedom.

I don't know that there's a natural conclusion to this post. I loved being married to John. I would love to have one more significant other to last the rest of my life, but I've got some pretty high standards after the twists and turns my life has taken. If I do spend the rest of my life alone—without a partner and lover—then I can consider myself blessed to have children and grandchildren who love and respect me and allow me to share in and enrich their lives.

I'm blessed.