appalled by her family’s treatment of her that when they visited, I tried to concentrate on writing or reading so as not to overhear. But it was impossible not to eavesdrop on her life to some degree—she was only a few feet away from me. The first night, her husband, a policeman, brought his cop friends to visit her. They were sweet and hearty but uncomfortable, and they left quickly. Her husband walked out with them, returning only long afterward.
The man—short, dark, well-built, handsome—spoke little; words were wrenched from him. When they were alone, he was very involved with her, not lovingly but in a power struggle. He kept trying to pin her down, to force her to say definitely if she was really going to make him go for psychotherapy or divorce him when she got home, as she had apparently threatened. She equivocated. I couldn’t tell if she feared to say what she wanted or if she didn’t know; perhaps she suspected she would not be going home. But she was clearly trying to pressure him.
After a while, the details filled in. The night she asked him to take her back to the hospital, he beat her up. She wanted him to express remorse; but he never did; he wanted to shrug it off, forget it. He was profoundly involved with his wife, but as a service: he was concerned not with her, but with his fate, his comfort. Though he did not want to go for therapy, he also did not want her to leave him. His wife was extremely important to him, but only as a means to his well-being, not in herself. It did not seem to have dawned on him that she would soon be leaving him permanently. He had to have been totally locked in himself not to recognize that she was dying.
She had two sisters, or foster sisters, who visited frequently and probably thought they were doing good. But they were busily, noisily cheerful—a common response to illness. People mean well and do not see how distancing insistent cheeriness is, how it denies another’s reality, denies a sick person the space or right to be sick and in pain. She tolerated or ignored them, asking often for her mother, who was really her foster mother. The sisters made excuses for the woman’s absence. It was a long trip for her, one said; the other scolded the patient for expecting so much. One day she burst into tears, crying that she needed her mother, wanted her. And finally, she appeared, a tired middle-aged woman, indifferent and uninterested, even annoyed, talking constantly about how busy and overworked she was, especially now that she was tending the sick woman’s son. The young woman was reduced to whining for a little love, but she did not get it. And when one day the husband brought in the little boy, a child of about eight, she barely spoke to him, completing the hellish family dynamic.
A doctor visited her a few times and vaguely discussed possible treatments, including a bone marrow transplant. She placed her hope in the transplant, mentioning it to each visitor at every visit. But he did not arrange for treatment; he dillydallied, as my doctors had until I prodded them. I conjectured that her doctor was reluctant to subject her to so painful a treatment when she had little chance of surviving it, that he was really waiting for her to die. But maybe I was making this all up. In any case, she was still in that bed when I left the hospital. I never saw her again.
No one in her world seemed strong enough to console the poor soul; she had to face death alone. Observing her with profound sympathy and identification—I, too, had felt myself an unloved child (but now I was loved!)—I considered my situation nowhere near as sad. I could face death with some equanimity: I was sixty-one years old and had had a rich, satisfying life, if also one of intense suffering. But I believed that some of my suffering was caused by my own intensity, my fierceness and volatility; I had made everything hard for myself. Yet I had also, slowly and stumblingly, created the life I wanted.
The man—short, dark, well-built, handsome—spoke little; words were wrenched from him. When they were alone, he was very involved with her, not lovingly but in a power struggle. He kept trying to pin her down, to force her to say definitely if she was really going to make him go for psychotherapy or divorce him when she got home, as she had apparently threatened. She equivocated. I couldn’t tell if she feared to say what she wanted or if she didn’t know; perhaps she suspected she would not be going home. But she was clearly trying to pressure him.
After a while, the details filled in. The night she asked him to take her back to the hospital, he beat her up. She wanted him to express remorse; but he never did; he wanted to shrug it off, forget it. He was profoundly involved with his wife, but as a service: he was concerned not with her, but with his fate, his comfort. Though he did not want to go for therapy, he also did not want her to leave him. His wife was extremely important to him, but only as a means to his well-being, not in herself. It did not seem to have dawned on him that she would soon be leaving him permanently. He had to have been totally locked in himself not to recognize that she was dying.
She had two sisters, or foster sisters, who visited frequently and probably thought they were doing good. But they were busily, noisily cheerful—a common response to illness. People mean well and do not see how distancing insistent cheeriness is, how it denies another’s reality, denies a sick person the space or right to be sick and in pain. She tolerated or ignored them, asking often for her mother, who was really her foster mother. The sisters made excuses for the woman’s absence. It was a long trip for her, one said; the other scolded the patient for expecting so much. One day she burst into tears, crying that she needed her mother, wanted her. And finally, she appeared, a tired middle-aged woman, indifferent and uninterested, even annoyed, talking constantly about how busy and overworked she was, especially now that she was tending the sick woman’s son. The young woman was reduced to whining for a little love, but she did not get it. And when one day the husband brought in the little boy, a child of about eight, she barely spoke to him, completing the hellish family dynamic.
A doctor visited her a few times and vaguely discussed possible treatments, including a bone marrow transplant. She placed her hope in the transplant, mentioning it to each visitor at every visit. But he did not arrange for treatment; he dillydallied, as my doctors had until I prodded them. I conjectured that her doctor was reluctant to subject her to so painful a treatment when she had little chance of surviving it, that he was really waiting for her to die. But maybe I was making this all up. In any case, she was still in that bed when I left the hospital. I never saw her again.
No one in her world seemed strong enough to console the poor soul; she had to face death alone. Observing her with profound sympathy and identification—I, too, had felt myself an unloved child (but now I was loved!)—I considered my situation nowhere near as sad. I could face death with some equanimity: I was sixty-one years old and had had a rich, satisfying life, if also one of intense suffering. But I believed that some of my suffering was caused by my own intensity, my fierceness and volatility; I had made everything hard for myself. Yet I had also, slowly and stumblingly, created the life I wanted.
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