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Slivers, Part II 2/15/2011 6:23:20 PM
The New Yorker magazine’s Dec. 13, 2010 issue ran a touching article . . . The article was written by Joyce Carol Oates and titled, A Widow's Story. The bulk of the story takes place in The Princeton Medical Center in February of 2008. As only Ms. Oates can do, she related heart-wrenching details of her husband's sudden illness and of the day he died and how devastated she was when she couldn't get to his side in time. After a middle of the night phone call, she arrived just minutes after he passed away. She sat with him and held him, but it was too late to say goodbye.
Because I had recently spent five days in the hospital, its unmistakable sights, sounds, and smells were fresh in my mind as I read her short memoir. I remembered that lonely time in the middle of the night and how vulnerable I felt, all alone. I'd lie there for an hour or so, hoping to go back to sleep, and then buzz the front desk to ask for a dish of ice cream; not so much hungry in the tummy, but hungry for human contact. I was scared, a bit teary-eyed, and most definitely in need of a friendly face and the reassuring voice of my nurse.
Reading Ms. Oates story, I was struck by the couple's tender love story that had spanned decades. They were devoted to one another, and now she was unbearably lonely and disoriented. She had lost her love, her best friend, and the only life she knew.
Today, the day after Valentine’s Day, I realize how fortunate I am to have my spouse, and how I have often taken our good health and our being together for granted.
My surgery is about nine weeks past and I'm still regaining strength, endurance, and the ability to do the day to day things I enjoy. I yearn to feel normal again and to not need to leave work early or postpone time with my family so I can rest or take a nap. This “slowing down” time has given me an idea of what I may feel like in twenty years, and it ain't all that great.
Again, I see the slivers in my life that I often overlook; the minute details that are taken for granted, forgotten, cast away like lint, but valuable enough to be placed in a safe deposit box. In a few months I may read this, and realize how quickly time has passed and how I should hold on and cherish the little things, the slivers that make all the difference.
