I've always said that I understood and accepted the notion that I would spend some of my life alone... the actuarial/longevity tables and all that.
Now it's come, and I'm not so sure of myself and my ability to cope with that aloneness. Actually, I never was sure I could cope, I was just being realistic, I said.
The anger that had been festering in me because of the self-inflicted nature of Don's growing discomfort and illness vanished without a trace when he told me how devastating were the radiological results.
"The worst possible," were his first words, and he went on to explain that a tumor in his left lung had already metastasized... was probably the cause of the dead vocal chord and the lump on the lymph node.
It is inoperable, of course. The next move is to check into Washington Hospital Center for a biopsy to see if the cancer is the kind you can treat with chem or radiation therapies or if it is the kind you cannot.
We sat at the dining room table drinking Grand Marnier. Talking. He said , "I think I'm going to cry," got up from the table, walked to the kitchen, sobbing. I went to him, took him in my arms... we clung to each other. He said I love you so much, I said I love you so much.
He said "I guess I'm not the macho I thought I was... it's so damned FINAL!"
He said he had thought he would be devastated when the doctor told him; "But I really expected it..." He actually discussed the years of smoking, still short-counting the smokes...
All the things we are not talking about: whether to withdraw into the house and be with each other for the rest of our time, or to get out and do things to the extent that he can with comfort.
This is a day of the brink of tears. As if they have been moving up closer to the surface since the beginning... streaming slowly at the table that first evening, now heaving below the surface in tidal waves.
I'm working this out on the computer..
The preceding reposes on a floppy labeled "Life" under a file called "Day One." This is part of the way my computer saved my sanity during my late husband's final illness. On the disk which I labeled "Life," I planned to chronicle all that was left of a life which had been a part of mine for 40 years.
Some of this computerized mourning went on through several BBS's, including one which specialized in help for the handicapped. One night, after I left the keyboard, the telephone rang. It was the Sysop of the Handicapped Educational Exchange saying, "I thought your messages seemed a bit 'down' andwanted to check on you." We talked for an hour.
That kind of sensitivity seemed decidedly non-techie. I never even asked how human feelings came through the type on screen.
Before Don died in early 1988, there were hours online, and several floppy disks, filled with the outpourings. The techie outlet kept me from dumping grief onto relatives who were suffering their own part of the loss.
This writing saved me from holding in the feelings of rage, resentment and despair. I would have exploded without the release.
Every now and then, I slip one of the disks into a drive here -- as I did just now -- and relive those terrible times. This is not masochism...truly. It serves to remind me of how much Don and I cared for one another. It makes me value my friends of today, and the family members who survive along with me.
It serves to keep me much easier to get along with, and especially devoted in a relationship which I now treasure.
So what is this thing? this computer?
It's a link, a channel, a Rosetta Stone. By extension, it serves as a memory, a crying towel, and a hand reached out to hold and to be held. No, of course, it doesn't replace family and friends.
It is whatever we need for it to be. Only remember, we must retain the control, just as in life.
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P.O. Box 2309 Ocean City, MD 21842 jocee@shore.intercom.net Other Writings by Jo Campbell