FIFTY + YEARS IS A LIFE TIME

Our 52^nd wedding anniversary.

Paul was three weeks into his first eight week hospital stay.  In a hospital two hours from home.

We would celebrate our anniversary in that hospital room.  But we would celebrate.   I packed  our favorite breakfast—sausage biscuits and home canned tomato juice.  (the commercial juice  is too thick, too salty and too sweet).  In the bag I put two small bottles of red wine.  We had asked permission,  which was not given. But which was not explicitly forbidden. The wine would accompany a meal ordered from the hospital food service.

The usual SCRABBLE game went well, as did the morning sausage breakfast.  Now it was time to consider the anniversary meal.  After scouring the menu we planned celebratory meal, put in our order  and set  off for morning exercise—walks up and down the hall, walks into the connecting corridor between wings.

Sitting in rocking chairs before a window allowing access to the sun’s rays we sat.  Silently.  Fifty some years does not need a lot of words—a look, a touch, a sigh tells it all.

A CNA burst through the double doors. “Here you are. You need to get back to your room now.”

“Why?” Paul asked.

“They didn’t tell me. They just said bring you back.”

Paul stood. His left hand took mine, his right took the mobile ‘tube holding’ apparatus.

We arrived at his room to find no one there.  The CNA assured us  someone be right there.

We waited.

We waited.

The door opened.  A young black man pushed a large wagon into the room.  Several people followed. The cover of the table was removed with the chorus of voices saying “HAPPY ANNIVERSARY”.  A sumptuous meal of roast chicken, steamed asparagus, rice, fruit  salad, sparkling apple juice (There was to be no wine) a decorated cake and a vase with roses.

We gasped;  I cried.  After they left we even opened our smuggled in wine.  It was a lovely night.

THE BEGINNING OF A NIGHTMARE

                              

This entry is out of sequence. I know that.  But memories come as memories come, not in orderly chronological order.

Days before Paul’s diagnosis we both knew something was terribly wrong.  I reacted with worry and fear,  Paul with fear and denial.  Just a month before he had put aside his daily exercise regimen, explaining that the spring and summer  farm work would be exercise enough.

The grass in the yard had grown tall from the warm temperatures and the daily rain.  He started the mower and made two swaths across the front yard.  Suddenly he stopped the mower and sat at the concrete picnic bench next to the fish pond.  His breathing was rapid; his bare chest glistened from perspiration.  From the front porch I watched as he struggled to recover.  He restarted the mower, made two swaths and stopped the mower.  

“You Ok?”, I asked.

“Just out of breath.”

Just out of breath. Just out of breath. The beginning of two years of being just out of breath.

MY EXTRAORDINARY MAN

In my 80+ years I have known many men, not in the Biblical sense, but as father, brother, cousin, son, friend, colleague and neighbor. But I have never known one with the unique qualities of my now gone husband, Paul.

He was by training a scientist with a PHD in Chemistry. By temperment and artist. By inclination a philosopher. By accomplishments a moderate success in all, a failure in none.

He was but three years old, the youngest of four children, when he was labeled "NOTIONS". I did not know him as a child, but my experience with him as an adult tells me that "NOTIONS" was the perfect moniker.

His obituary which before his death we wrote together captures his life and spirit. The first line and last few were added after his death. 

Paul Eugene Field of Elliston died April 11 at the age of 79.

Nature whence he came has reclaimed his body and spirit

A body nourished by vigorous exercise and healthy food

A spirit fed by passion, curiosity and principles

A drive to think, to learn, to know and write

A need to live, to laugh, to love and play

A love of nature compelling him to salute the sun

Revere the trees, bow to butterflies and laud the birds

An addiction to the arts leaving his domed, mural walled folly

His tiled towering obelisk

His indomitable spirit and active body have returned to their

 proper place

Cherishing his memory are his wife Jewell

Children Sylvia, Randy and Thom

Grandchildren Karen and Joey

A host of friends

SAVED BY UNDERSTANDING AND ACCEPTANCE

This memory has undergone many re-evaluations over the past few years.  Hurt- anger- resentment and finally understanding. I shall try to explain.

Paul was in the second year of his treatment, doing his second long term hospitalization in Wake Forest Hospital in Winston Salem, North Carolina.  He there, alone at meal time, at night.  Me home, alone at meal time, at night. Except for those one night weekend visits.

My sister, a devoted evangelical Christian, in an effort to be supportive and sympathetic called me frequently.  It filled the lonely evenings when television or reading did not seem to help.

Then that one night. I was feeling  particularly lonely and vulnerable.  She talked- she listened. Then she asked, “Jewell, let me ask you. Has Paul ever been saved?”

Anger, frustration, hurt born of my own youthful  disastrous ‘getting saved’ experience sprang to the surface. “He’s not lost”, I said.  She was silent. “He’s dying and so far nobody seems to be able to save him.”

I hung up and began to sob.

It has been nearly four years since that hurtful exchange. I have come to terms with my own hostility to the pain I suffered in that ‘getting saved’ experience.  I have come to accept that my sister wanted only to be helpful. Today we are more accepting of each other. 

I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S BUTTER

Paul had firm ideas about the advantages of oleo over unhealthy butter. Besides oleo tasted better. So it was through our long marriage.

Chemotherapy or leukemia itself or both took its toll on his taste buds. One of the casualties was oleo. “We need to find a new oleo,” he announced, “this one has a funny taste.”

Thus began what was to be either a comedic or a boring routine. Each new oleo was greeted with, “I thought you were going to get a new oleo.”

“I did.”

“It doesn’t taste like it. This one tastes off.”

Change- tastes wrong- change. Until I made a bold decision. I bought butter.

Then came the test. He spread his favorite blueberry muffin with the latest ‘new oleo’. After his  first bite he sighed contentedly and said, “Finally an oleo that tastes right.”

He died never knowing he was eating unhealthy ‘doesn’t taste right’ oleo.

DRUNK BUT ALIVE

My undisciplined nature at once admired and resented Paul’s discipline. The day we were married he weighed 155 pounds. During our fifty + years together his weight varied only between 155 and 160. Every morning he weighed and if he was at 160 he curtailed his calories for the day.

He loved his bourbon and wine: one shot of bourbon (nursed for an hour) before dinner every night; one glass of wine with dinner. Without exception.

Not always without exception .  There was the regular meeting of long time friends who spent one night a week sharing a movie, snacks and wine. Those nights he had three or sometimes four glasses of wine.

Until that one night.

For over a year he had been holding death at bay. For over a year he had seen a steady decline. For over a year he had experienced a whittling down of his promised two years. That night one glass of wine led to a second, then to a third. Until he was free of his disciplined thought, free of his dread of dying, free of his normal inhibitions.

“You guys are my anchor,” he said with wavering voice. “It’s  all that keeps me going.”

Uneasy moments. Then to our car. “I’ll drive”, I said.

“You think I can’t drive? Well I can.”

The drive to our house, ten miles of a curvy narrow rural road, is demanding of any driver.  But he drove.  I sat erect, scared as he swerved at each curve, as he wandered out of his half of the road.

Not since my disastrous ‘getting saved’ religious experience had I believed in a god who would help if I asked. But not this night. This night I thought but dared not utter, ”God , let us get home in one piece and I’m yours.”

Without disaster we approached our last turn. Our mailbox. “I’ll check the mail,” he said. The side mirror smacked into the mailbox.  Then we came to our parking place. The side mirror again smacked into the post of the carport.

“Paul”, I said. “You’re drunk”

“So what?”  he said, “ If I am?  I’m not dead yet.”

TURKEY SUBS, WINE AND ANGELIC HARP MUSIC

That day during the second week in December was calmer and warmer than usual. The day we were due in Wake Forest Hospital for the routine bore into Paul’s spine for bone marrow to check the progression of the disease or the treatment. The routine we knew well.

We left early, drove our favored back roads through Floyd Virginia, Fancy Gap, Mt Airy North Carolina and our beloved Mt Pilot.

From the Food Lion, half way and with a nice restroom, we bought a turkey sub (to be shared) and two small bottles of red wine. Whether wine was permitted we never asked. We did not want to know. But in the event it was prohibited, I must confess, we concealed the bottles with drink covers.

Settled in two seats in the waiting area near the outpatient intake office we began our picnic. Barely had we taken our first bites and sips  when our ears were regaled with a harp quartet of holiday music. Sandwiches and wine in hand we went to the railing overlooking the floor below. Before our eyes were four lovely ladies, perched daintily on stools before their harps, pouring out angelic music.

Sodium laden sandwiches, forbidden wine and angelic harp music combined all the elements, not enough needed to alleviate all worry and pain, but it surely went a long way.