QUIET AND SOMBER NEW YEAR'S EVE

As the year approaches its end, the last New Year’s Eve I spent with Paul surfaces and resurfaces often and vividly – more vividly than it turned out that night. It was barely four months before Paul’s death and we both knew it would be our last together.

Well in advance we bought two champagne glasses and a bottle of champagne for our last New Year’s Eve celebration.  New Year’s Eve we settled in for the wait. He in the rocking chair which in a few weeks would become his day time and night time resting place. I on the sofa with my head resting on the piled up cushions. A little television – a little reading – a little talking- we waited for the proper hour.

Sometime after 2:00 AM we awoke and went to bed.

The champagne I tossed out after two years. The glasses hang on the wine glass rack with the other 18 bought at various times and places during our years together.  Maybe this year I will take them down and toast my memories. More likely I will fall asleep long before midnight.

LITTLE THINGS MEAN A LOT

During Paul’s battle with leukemia he spent many weeks in the Wake Forest Hospital in North Carolina. During those stays I spent each Saturday and Sunday with him in his hospital room.  On one of those weekends he said, “We have to talk about something. The last two times you were here you screwed up the toilet paper.”

At a loss I asked, “What do you mean?”

“You leave it so I can’t get it going. You need to learn how to leave the paper hanging down so I can get hold of it.”

My initial reaction was not loving, and had I not been counseled well by the hospital social worker I might have created an unnecessary unpleasant situation. “Remember,” she said, “he’s here, confined, controlled, poked, ordered. He controls nothing in his daily life.”

I understood. The position of the toilet paper was one control he had.

With  a lot of love and little effort I made sure to leave the toilet paper with a hanging tab.