Widowhood Reflections
It is holiday time, it is one of the hardest times of the year for me. Hanukkah, Christmas, happy people rushing about preparing for this joyous season. The air crackles with excitement. The smell of logs burning in fireplaces curl up the chimneys and floats into the crispy air spreading a delightful aroma into the outdoors as it soars up into the skies. Winter is here! Holidays are here! Families get together!
Shops are filled with holiday music, their storefronts decorated with a tempting array of goods. People push past each other as they greedily snatch at the objects they desire. There is activity everywhere.
Last night I called my neighbour, Moira, who moved to another state a few years ago. She lost her husband this past summer. She is having a very hard time of it. We spoke for over an hour. She sobbed and sobbed. I listened. ‘’Cry, cry,’’ I said. ‘’It’s okay to cry.’’ Forty years have passed. We were young then. We shared tough times together. We shared happy times and peaceful ones. Now we share this deep sense of loss together.
This morning they were playing excerpts from the Nutcracker Suite on the radio. It took me back to the time Peter took us all to see it one Christmas season. Life was so full then, so joyful. It was Peter that made it so. He had a gift of sprinkling joy everywhere he went and on everything he did.
With a sad heart, I rose from bed and went to take my shower. The house felt empty. It was empty. It echoed with silence. I felt desolate. The ache inside of me was oh so painful. As the water washed over me, I allowed myself to weep silently. Salty tears ran down my face and mingled with the wetness of the warm water that washed over me and ran down my body and into the drain. It felt as if I was losing my life blood. Would it never cease, this agonizing deep pain? Will it ever give me reprieve? This deep painful yearning for my departed, my beloved soulmate. It burns and twists within me in an indescribable agony.
That Monday, that first day of June, I woke up at four o’clock in the morning. Peter was pacing up and down our bedroom in agitation. He was worried about the trial that he was trying at that time. I hated his client. He was a merciless self-absorbed nonentity. He was on Rikers Island and called Peter incessantly. On Mother’s Day, we had gone to City Island for lunch. He gave us no reprieve! He called every five minutes asking Peter to come see him at Rikers. Finally, Peter caved in, and we headed back home. Along the way, he called again. “We are on our way back,” I said coldly as I spoke into the phone while Peter drove. He knew me. I worked with Peter.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mrs. Cooperman,” he said. I wanted to twist his neck off his miserable shoulders. I hated him, but Peter had nothing but compassion for him, this self-indulgent good for nothing; this poor excuse for a human being, this ne’er-do-well petty thief; this drug addict, this whoremonger. He has been in and out of jail since he was fifteen. Now he was fifty, and Peter dealt with his problems all those years. Why did Peter bother?
The trial had started a while ago, and this man was behaving in the most trying and obnoxious manner. He was distressing Peter to the utmost; even the presiding judge commented on it at Peter’s shiva. It was because of the stress he put him under, that Peter died.
The day before his last day on this earth, a Sunday, was a beautiful morning. It was warm enough to breakfast on the porch. It was the first time that season. Rocelia and I had cleaned up the porch after the winter months. It was inviting. The birds were joyfully singing in the garden, the breeze was rustling through the leaves in the trees. We had a leisurely light breakfast, delighting in the coming of the warm weather. Afterwards, we ran some errands, then we went to a French patisserie for coffee and pastries.
Later, he drove us to Oakland Lake. We intended to walk around the lake, but it was shut down for renovations. He suggested we drive up to Jones Beach.
Why did I not say yes? I ask myself that question over and over again. If I had accepted, would he still be alive today? Perhaps he would not have gone to Rikers Island to visit that worthless man? That feeble excuse for a human life? Then he would not have been stuck there until ten o’clock that evening because of a lockdown. He would not have been without any rest and without any food. Then he would not have come home drained and tired to the bone. He would not have insisted on walking Picasso before going to bed just to try to relax. Then he would not have died. Then he would have slept peacefully through the night. Then he would still have been here making all of us share in his joy of life!
I woke up at four o’clock. He was pacing up and down the bedroom.
‘’Peter, what are you doing?’’ I asked.
‘’Leave me alone! I have to work on the trial,’’ he replied.
‘’You are prepared. Come back to bed. Come, darling,’’ I urged.
Reluctantly he came back to bed. I held him tight and we fell asleep. At seven, we were up again. He took his shower, dressed, and came down. He refused any breakfast but finally accepted a bowl of cereal with blueberries. As he was about to leave the house, we stood by the back doorway. He had his hand on one of the large attache cases, specifically used for trials. He made a slight bow.
‘’Please forgive me for all the troubles I caused you,’’ he said.
‘’You did not cause me any trouble,’’ I replied. “Your client is the one who is causing you trouble.”
Did he sense this was to be his last day on earth? Is that the reason for that statement? Was he apologizing for the excruciating grief we would feel in a few hours when his soul would depart to the heavens above?
We were expecting Matthew for dinner that evening. Just before five o’clock, I took my shower. When I came out, the answering machine was blinking. It was Peter’s number. I dialed. A strange voice answered.
“Sorry, wrong number,” I said and hung up.
Immediately the phone rang. It was Peter’s phone again. I picked it up.
A stranger asked, ‘’Mrs. Cooperman?’’
‘’Who is this? Did you find my husband’s phone?’’ I asked.
‘’Mrs. Cooperman, your husband collapsed on the street. He is in an ambulance on his way to Jamaica Hospital as we speak. I am a police officer. I can come pick you up and take you there.’’
‘’He killed him! He finally killed him!’’ I cried in panic.
The man repeated himself. I told him my son was on his way home for dinner.
I immediately called Matthew. ‘’Matthew! Matthew! Something happened to Dad! Come! Hurry! Jamaica Hospital!’’ I blabbered. I was semi-hysterical and struggled to breathe.
We drove through the rush hour traffic. I kept telling Matthew that I would have to call Dr. Albanese, his heart specialist, and he would transfer him to North Shore Hospital. Matthew said nothing. He concentrated on weaving through the evening traffic. We got to the hospital. Matthew told the receptionist we were here for Peter Cooperman. They immediately led us to a stark empty room with a long table with just a box of tissues on it. That struck me as odd, but I did not think much of it. Matthew sensed that all was not well. I did not. After what seemed a long wait, a doctor and a nurse walked in.
“How is my husband?” I asked.
The doctor shook his head in silence. I looked at him intently, trying to comprehend. Finally I asked, “Are you telling us he passed away?’’
Another nod of the head.
’’No! No! You lie!” I cried.
I insisted I wanted to see him. They said they would have to clean him up.
‘’He is my husband! I want to see him now!’’
They led us through a bustling emergency ward. There were patients with their family members there. It was well lit. We followed them to the end of the ward. The back of that area was dimly lit and silent.
They drew back the curtains from a cubicle. There was a zipped-up body bag on a hospital bed. They unzipped it. Peter was lying there. There was a pool of blood at the back of his head. His nose was twisted at an angle. His right eye had slightly popped out. There was a tube coming out of his mouth. Oh no! Oh no! Peter would not like this! He was fastidious! He got distressed at the sight of any blood on him, even if he was shaving! He would not like this one bit! No! No! That is not the way he was to go!
He always said that we would die together at the age of ninety-three in a red sports car that he drove as he hit into a tree because he was too old. We giggled at the thought, but he also used to say our souls must have been born together, and we would die together, and I believed him.
As we looked at Peter lying there in that body bag, Matthew stood helplessly as if frozen. I held Peter’s hand. I remember keening over and over again, “Peter, what shall we do? What shall we do without you?” He was still warm. I kissed his hand, I caressed his face. For a moment I forgot he had passed away. I removed my hand to wipe my tears. His hand fell down on the bed with a soft thump. I felt mortified. I did not mean to hurt him. “Sorry darling,’’ I apologized.
At some point, we left. I felt as if I was in a grey dark tunnel. I was hardly aware of my surroundings. How could I still be alive when the love of my life was gone? He was the reason for my being, the joy of my life. He was my sunshine, the reason I was! Why was I still here? I was convinced he would come to get me. He would not leave me here alone without him. So I waited and waited patiently, but he did not come. A year passed, and another, and still another.
The years have passed. The pain has not. Everything is an effort. Sometimes I smile at the flowers in the garden or a piece of classical music. My grandson gives me joy. My cousin Ola’s grandchildren give me joy, but nothing is the same. I feel hollow inside. On the radio, I hear Christmas music playing and I recall the endless rounds of holiday parties, the trips we took between Christmas and New Year. I recall the laughter and the joy! How vibrant we were! How very vibrant! How full of life. Where has it all gone?
There is an Arabic saying which I changed a bit. ‘’A husband is the crown upon a woman’s head.’’ In my opinion, a good and loving husband is a crown on his wife’s head. Not all husbands are. I had such a magnificent crown on my head, the very best, but it has been taken away from me. I will never get it back on this earth, and I am devastated.