They Say It's Your Re-Birthday
Birthdays put a spotlight on your special day, but I couldn’t imagine what macabre gift the universe had in mind.
December 7 - My first taste of Bruce-ness without couple-ness
I pay close attention to the synchronicities of life.
When you surrender to the flow, everything carries meaning. but my woo-woo sense was stumped by the star-crossed collision of Karen’s retirement, my birthday, and her imminent death.
Once again, I made oatmeal I didn’t eat.
Top on my list was an hour-long Skype session with Bhagwan in India. I dialed.
“Good morning, Bruce,” Bhagwan answered with his the-universe-is-perfect normalcy. “Is Karen in the room? Can she hear us?”
“Yes, she can,” I replied. I summed up the Big Story to get Bhagwan up to speed, but it wasn’t necessary. For him, it’s all One Big Story.
“Karen, can you hear me?” Bhagwan asked through the squeaky phone. “Can you hear me?”
“Karen, it’s Bhagwan,” I added.
Not knowing the protocol, I asked Bhagwan if we could meditate. I was accustomed to jolts of conscious energy whenever I was with Bhagwan, but now, flailing in the deep end, I couldn’t find his presence.
I brought the phone close. “Karen, it’s Bhagwan.”
“I feel him inside,” Karen murmured unexpectedly.\
At that moment, I realized that Karen and Bhagwan had a way of communicating that I would only learn much later. More importantly, I felt assured that Bhagwan was helping Karen navigate the Holy Ground.
After the call, I directed Jacob and Hillary to drive to the Conyers Monastery to choose the burial plot.
“Choose one for me while you’re there,” I retorted.
The Honey Creek Woodlands “Steward” should have been cast with Nichols and May:
“This is a beautiful meadow with native grasses, a small oak growing nearby, and a tranquil view,” he intoned.
“We’ll take it,” I replied before moving to the next exigency.
One beat later, Steve and Lorie from Asheville were on the phone. “We’re driving up from McDonough and want to stop by for a hug.”
As a retired midwife, Lorie instantly observed Karen in labor. She pulled up a video of her dad swing dancing on his 100th birthday. “He made it his plan to dance with every woman in the room,” Lorie beamed with pride. “And he did!”
Suddenly, I had a life plan.
Karen rested for most of the day, attended by her beloved friends. In the spirit of the Wings of Desire, I started calling them Angels. At each poignant moment feeling “this is it,” Karen awakened.
Karen awakened to utter with poetic gravitas, “Life is so sweet.”
Fey, the hospice nurse, came by to give me another glimpse of her mission—ministering people across the Holy Ground like a sweet Southern ferrywoman on the River Styx.
Gail, Karen’s massage therapist, came to the door to offer Karen craniosacral therapy. She held Karen’s ankles for the longest time to restore an energy flow.
Gail turned to me from the end of the bed to whisper and wink, “I was brought up as the daughter of a preacher, and at a young age, I learned to tune into the spirit world. This room is full of them. There’s one just above Karen right now.”
I smiled without smirking (or seeing) but thanked the spirit beings for showing up on my birthday.
I wasn’t sure about the etiquette for hosting a birthday party while your wife is dying in the other room. (Henny Youngman, where are you?)
Should people be offered an audience with the guest of honor? Do we need to speak in hushed tones? At a minimum, the house should appear tidy, so I rushed around to hide the perennial piles of papers. As I scurried, an ancient postcard plopped out of a strangely misplaced envelope. I turned it over to discover a 1982 love note I sent to Karen.
I parsed my unreadable scribble: “Business opportunity seems to be coming my way these days, and I comply, but I am far more interested in Love Opportunity with my Suzette.” (Her affectionate nickname back then.) Whoa…
Well, that’s inopportune. Suddenly, the curtain to my past opened, and a vortex of grief swallowed me whole. I went upstairs and let two days of wailing grief pour out.
When the “party-goers” arrived, I instinctively went into host mode, leaving Karen’s side.
I shook off my confusion about where and how to be and decided to love up the guests. How strange— these people came to support me. What a concept, “ME!!!”
Wow, wow, wow. My first taste of Bruce-ness without couple-ness scrambled my newfound persona. For a moment, I felt strong, complete, and whole instead of fractured and broken.
After the birthday pie with a spectacular lattice crust was served (and without physician approval), I considered whether to let people visit Karen. Some people instinctively disappeared while others assembled on the deck, doors open, a few feet from Karen. As they peered through the door, I felt ashamed to have foisted such a difficult vision — to see their once-vital friend hovering between worlds, looking gaunt. Nonetheless, gratitude flowed as my musician friend Anahata broke into song.
Defeated at last by the crush of fatigue, I slid into bed. I cowered under the covers like a child and let a vortex of demon thoughts swallow my hole—until Julie summoned me at 5 a.m.
“Karen is restless and in pain, and we gave her four doses of medicine,” Julie nudged gently. “I think she needs your support.”
And that’s where I end my birthday story – typing this story at Karen’s side while savoring a glorious slice of verboten pie.
December 8 - Welcome to the House of No Sleep
The house is bursting with Heavenly Hosts.
Bruce, Karen, Jacob, Hillary, Nathaniel, Carole Anne, Julie, Melissa, plus Amy, Eleanor, Ella, and Bridget are taking shifts. You’d think we could distribute the load so everyone could get some rest. But no, this is The House of No Sleep.
Nurse Fey consecrated the Holy Ground, so why sleep through Sacred Time? More to the point, sleeping in The Bed of Emptiness brings me to the precipice of despair.
Before you gloss forward, let the words sink in: PRECIPICE OF DESPAIR
If I had time to contemplate, I might inquire, where do these states live in my being? Are they real? Is impending loss the same as actual loss?
But no inquiry. Julie woke me at 5 a.m. after a 3 a.m. shut-eye. “Karen needs you. We gave her four doses of morphine and can’t get her to relax.”
I lined up three chairs and stretched alongside my beloved, cradling her in my arms. Years ago, I gave up Sufi chanting but instinctively sounded “allah-allah-allah…” in rhythm to Karen’s gentle moans.
By morning, the Heavenly Hosts buzzed around with love and intention – food, dishes, dog walks, wall charts, a house meeting, reassigning bedrooms, medications, bathing Karen’s body, readjusting her position, and catnaps.
Eleanor delivered a communique from the highest authority: “We all need protein.” Self-directed, she went out and returned with salmon and pesto. No joke, how do people transition without a crack team of Angels? I hope you’re taking notes.
I have no memory of the day, but I remember the pain.
You can’t yank a bandage without facing the pain, and the end of a 40-year love life was ripping me in seven dimensions:
1. The Unreality – A pervasive disassociation infuses every waking moment as if the Marriage Channel suddenly flipped from joie de vivre to dissolution and death. I still expect a slap out of the dream (Buñuel, where are you?), but I am forced to accept, “THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING.”
The thought This is really happening has hit me twice in my life: When I first looked into Karen’s eyes on the blind date set up by Reshad Feild, and when Karen collapsed in my arms in an elevator from a brain tumor.
2. The Bittersweet—The centerpiece of our marriage was to invite love, life, and laughter into our home. What a tragedy that Karen can’t savor the sweetness bursting inside our walls.
3. The Loneliness – Grief sneaks in like a misplaced chasm beneath your feet. Reshad once described the difference between day thoughts and night thoughts. At night, the waking mind yields to the subconscious, where the demons live. Last night, despite bone-tiredness, and while doom-scrolling my phone, I counted the years and realized that from birth to age 72, I lived alone for three years. Some people fear heights or getting on stage. For me, being alone looms like quicksand. Peter, a Quaker minister, shared the brutal truth, “Bruce, you can’t get through loneliness without experiencing the loneliness.”
4. The Dying Process – I paint beautiful pictures in these posts, but the hard truth is that death is not pretty. Dosing the pain, washing and moving an immovable body, draining nephrostomy bags, fiddling with oxygen, suctioning gurgles, and holding vigil pushed our physical capacity to support Karen’s Holy journey.
5. The Recriminations – “Bruce, DO NOT GO THERE” But wzzippt — my mental tape rewound. I saw the missed signs, signals, and clinical off-ramps. The Memorex doesn’t lie, but that’s not how life works. The blind spots are sewn into the fabric of consciousness.
6. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter – This 1968 movie title tinkers with my insides, and for no apparent reason. Each of us, whatever religion, seeks the same thing – connection. We can’t “hunt” for God without connecting through each other. When the electrons flow between two beings, that sweet dynamic creates meaning. I wish we could honor the vital role of human connection. We need each other, and that’s okay.
7. The Empty Slate — So here I am, getting ready to relive my solo twenties with a new canvas to paint, and I scarcely know how to hold a brush. Even stranger, my canvas is already scribbled with a fully lived life.
Love you all. Bruce
December 9 - “She is Free from Pain.”
For the third morning in a row, I made a pot of oatmeal which I forgot to eat or even turn off. Hillary’s mom saved the pot.
On a sweet note, Hillary offered to trim my hair where it covered my ears—sweet until I looked in the mirror and saw Sinead O’Connor’s buzz cut staring back. Even more, I saw a sackcloth-garbed penitent preparing for ashes.
On a positive note, I can now roll out of bed ready to go.
Karen has been home for five days, and a punch-clock routine runs the house. I greet the wee-hour crew, sip coffee to her oxygen machine’s psst-thump, and study the medication log for a quick read of the night: Morphine taken four hours apart means resting easily; quicker intervals spells agitation. The transdermal patch was new.
I marveled at how quickly the shock of the new became mundane. The new normal included Karen lying semi-conscious, mouth agape, and me checking her comfort level while burning the oatmeal. Seven days ago, life revolved around the oncology floor at Emory and my fastidious intention to not lose my parking ticket ($25 fine).
Fast-forwarding, the four Angels gathered around Karen to bathe and dress her pleasantly warm body. They anointed her body with Biblical grace, diving into deep communication, even though Karen could only moan.
Karen looked clean and serene in fresh blue sheets that matched her blue sailing T-shirt — the one from Sydney’s Peace & Love in the British Virgin Islands that triggered a memory of us sailing the islands. I could picture it like yesterday, anchoring the sailboat as Karen leaned over the bow to snag the mooring. The family who ran the restaurant kept all the traditions after the patriarch Sydney died, including the do-it-yourself bar where you mixed your own painkiller. Funny how painkillers have become our focus.
Ella, our huge-hearted death doula neighbor, silently entered like a tip-toe cat.
She went to work, whispering encouragement to Karen.
I left the room and returned 45 minutes later to see Ella singing and swaying. Carole Anne joined her, smoothing Karen’s etheric with long, flowing strokes. This impromptu breath dance magnified the cadence of Karen’s breathing—swooshing, holding, and releasing. Yes, Bondo lovers, the theme of the week is “Connection.”
“Bruce, tell her it’s okay to slip into the water,” Carole Anne whispered
“What is going on?” I asked
“I told Karen I would go with her if I could – into the Water,” Carole Anne said. “She loved the water, swimming across the lake. I can feel her wanting to play but not wanting to go alone. Tell her it’s okay.”
Women are amazing creatures. Carole Anne’s instinctive knowing was not some wishful projection. In their younger years, Karen and Carole Anne referred to themselves as “Thelma and Louise” on their wild-women contra dance trips. And now Carole Anne entered a final deep communion with her wild-woman friend. “Playing in the Water” was real.
I put my arm around Karen and brought my lips close to her ear, chanting, “Allah, Allah, Allah.” In zikr, the “Allah” forms a heartbeat where percussive waves of sound caress the heart’s inner chambers.
I had no interest in encouraging Karen to slip into the water. She was doing the work – step-by-step – one foot in this world and two steps in the next — testing the Water. I tried to imagine her courage: Is it safe to step into the deep end? Is it too cold, too much nothingness? How do I continue without a Me?
A YUUGE food delivery arrived from the Turkish restaurant Truva – two dozen containers of moussaka, grape leaves, soup, salads, appetizers, grilled kabobs, and more (Thank you, David and Lynden). We gathered in the kitchen, giddy to feast.
“Who’s with Karen?” I called out. “Shit, nobody’s with Karen.” I ran up the stairs to perform a visual check. Breathing, yes. But it’s shallow, VERY SHALLOW!
I ran to the kitchen. “Come, Karen is hovering at the edge.”
Everyone gathered in silence as the walls dissolved, the roof opened, and Karen’s breath softened into a wisp.
And then, with one final flutter of a butterfly’s wing, she left.
I had watched too many end-of-life movies to appreciate Karen’s pin-drop passing from this world.
And then, perfectly on cue, hospice nurse Fey entered through the deck door. In scriptwriting, this kind of on-the-nose timing would be unbelievable.
Fey listened for Karen’s breath, felt for a pulse, and stethescoped her heart. As the minister of Holy Ground, Fey announced, “She has passed. 5:23 pm. It doesn’t get more beautiful than that. She is free from pain.”
We sat quietly while Fey filled out the paperwork. “Let’s clean her up before your people arrive.” Gently, the Angels removed Karen’s garments one more time, moistened cloths, and prepared to rock her to one side. As they turned the body, they gasped.
“Bruce, don’t watch!” Fey ordered with alarm. The klaxon sounded with an all-hands flurry. “Get me gloves, towels, rags. Remove the sheets and pillow into plastic bags.”
I thought long and hard about sharing this scene, but here it is. When they turned Karen, a river of fluid released from her abdomen and mouth. The collective shock was not from the visceral release but from the realization that Karen had been enduring weeks and months of unimaginable distress inside her sweet body. Always suffering but rarely complaining. Even Fey was shocked.
Angels face life as it is. They washed and dressed Karen, disposed the linens, trashed the medical debris, lit candles, and began to sing. True poetry is in motion. The Angels adorned her chest with roses and placed bouquets throughout the space. We sat silently for a long time until we headed to the kitchen for the Turkish spread.
Karen’s dear friend, Eleanor, raced up I-75. She had been attending to her 106-year-old ailing mom in Vidalia. “Eleanor, where are you?,” I implored. “They’re taking her away in 45 minutes.”
Eleanor hit her mark on-the-nose: “I’m walking in the door right now.”
We gathered in the candlelight one more time to serenade Karen to heaven. The space had been transformed into a chapel of Presence as we sang round after round of spirituals. A final silence filled the space as I removed Karen’s wedding ring, the one we designed together 38 years ago.
On cue again, the transport team appeared at the door.
“We’re here from Phoenix Funeral to transport the deceased.”
“Are you taking her this minute?” I asked, feeling a bit unsteady facing the Full Weight of Finality.
“We’ll be out in minutes.”
“Will you be taking her out on a stretcher?”
“Fireman’s body bag.”
“Should I watch?”
“I don’t recommend it. You don’t want the lasting image of your beloved to be in a body bag.”
So, I chose not to watch. Bridget sat close to me, stroking my head. I closed my eyes, breathing quietly, letting my heart fill with light.
Naturally, I opened my eyes.
As the macabre scene unfolded, it was clear that, like a magician’s trick, Karen was not in the bag. A smiling radiance filled the crown of my inner sky. Yes! Yes! Yes!
Good work, Karen.
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This prose is devouring me. How can no one already read this yet. It feels like unveiling a mysterious work of art