| IT’S been years since my husband Bernard left me, but I still bear the hurt that goes with the loss. Not that I’m stuck in the denial stage. I think I’ve long accepted the fact that all of us will go someday; it’s only a question of when. But it’s the reaction of some people that sometimes gets to me, the way they compartmentalize life and presume too much.Some short weeks after my husband’s death, a friendly neighbor invited me to the Handmaids of the Lord, a church organization of widows and single women, obviously to lighten my burden of grief. A very laudable mission, I should say.But when the welcoming smiles and consoling pats on the shoulders subsided, some questions cropped up.
….And how old was your husband when he died? Oh, 75?
And you said all your children are all grown ups? All have finished their college courses and are now working?
Tsk…Tsk…Then why are you still grieving? In fact, why grieve at all…?
The two Handmaids — fortyish and well meaning in their mission of ridding the world of misery — looked sideways at me, a look I caught. Their next words, I am sure, were meant to make me feel better.
…..Look at me, I still have two kids in elementary, three in high school, and can’t even keep up with the rent… and then he left me just like that ….?
…And me? Here I have been the past year, coping not only with small children but also with a baby he left while it was still in my womb….Oh yes, I have a job, but you know….Why, if only he stayed a few more years, the kids would have been on steadier ground and perhaps…
I looked around them, these young widows who seemed to be expecting some nod of hearty agreement from me and perhaps a smile of gratitude. Instead, I felt like someone had just ripped the bandage off my still gaping wound and rubbed rock salt on it. I felt words of denial rushing out of my throat, but I bit them back. My better self told me the futility of it all. So with head bowed with heaviness, I stood up and walked away. I’ve never gone back to the group, and never will.
But how can they understand? Only to people who knew us well, Bernard and myself, like my grown-up children and close friends, did I pour out my heartaches.
Of the 45 years of married life, we had spent the first 10 years having children, with both of us earning a living. The next 10 years we spent sending them to school, with Bernard working even on Sundays to make extra cash and keep the family afloat. All those years our individual faceless identity were those of parents to our children, nothing more. The next 10 to 15 years we sent them all — three wonderful pairs of them — to college, at last heaving a sigh of accomplishment on seeing each one of them graduate and get a foothold on this world. One by one, the older children flew the coop to start their own families, with the younger ones basking in the sunshine and scaling the corporate ladder. Soon enough they got their own condos and their own cars, without having to stretch out an open palm to papa or mama.
And then there were just the two of us!
When Bernard retired from the multinational bank he had worked for for 20 years, he said, “Hey, these gratuity dollars I’m getting, why should we give it to the children? Their education is the best legacy we can leave them. Now we can give ourselves a treat. Let’s not wait for our golden anniversary. Let’s take our vacation now.”
And so we did. We went on a world tour, just the two of us, when the exchange rate was only P18 to a dollar.
It was only in the past few years of togetherness when I felt that Bernard and I got to know each other as life partners and as friends who did not have to whisper when telling private jokes ( even when the kids were within earshot), who strolled through the park, arms locked without having to say “Hey, look out for that kid on the swing!,” without having to worry about the kitchen when the maids went on their day off, for we’d rather eat out in the community carinderia, than flip a coin to decide who would do the cooking, or wash the dishes afterwards.
In those few years together, we rediscovered ourselves, looking into each other’s eyes with the unuttered statement, “Hello, there girlfriend, boyfriend!”. We now found time to listen and lipsynch to the Indian love song, tap our feet on the floor for added rhythm, pretend we were conducting Handel’s “Messiah,” or listen to him playing the piano (by ear, mind you) or sing out of tune without worrying that we’re setting a bad example to the kids and the grandkids, whom we could enjoy without the corresponding string of responsibility (like changing diapers, whew!)
And then we had a foretaste of a reversal of roles. Once when Bernard and I went dancing with our fellow senior citizens, our youngest daughter Miyesa, who has her own apartment, decided to stay overnight at our place. And she was up after midnight, waiting for us, just like we did when they were in their teens. A few years later, our grown-up children would be reminding their mother, me, the widow: “Mama, don’t eat peanuts… watch your diet…. don’t take that public transpo…” and so on.
And then you ask why we, the old folks, should still mourn for our loss, for my lifetime boyfriend when he suddenly left me holding the bag of plans for our next tour, a slow boat around Southeast Asia? • |
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