We traveled down i95 South yesterday for more than 4 hours and back today retracing our steps, often stopping at the same rest stops for fuel and bathrooms. We felt it was the right thing to make this overnight trip to see David, raw and vulnerable, lost and unfocused, wondering if life without his wife of 70 years is worth it.
It was good to have Tuvia wisely respond, “There’s no other way, continue on, slowly.”
David heard him and agreed.
He was grateful to have us drop in on his mourning, to interrupt his new silence. He has lost weight, lost facial emotion. He is in a fog of loss and Tuvia was able to relate. David remembered Tuvia’s similar experience as a much younger man, years before we met. Tuvia mourned for 7 years and was ready to begin again when we met.
David doesn’t have the luxury of time at 90, but he does have his health, a supportive family,some close friends, and a nice place to live but right now he’s sleep walking and will be for months to come.
I couldn’t help but wonder what I would look like in his shoes but I’m staunchly anchored in our present. Grateful for each day, planning for our next trip, my next project. Anchored in my life and feeling compassion for David as he sits on his cozy, enclosed balcony porch, looking out over a pond, a sunset, now alone.
Even though we were dog-tried as Tuvia steered into the driveway, we were certain that somehow we would find the energy to get back into a car and drive to Hoboken for our usual Friday night dinner with his family. We needed to be back family, to hug kids just a bit tighter, grateful for them all, for their sounds after so much sad silence, we needed our wonderful routine.