by Sally Quinn
I made it back in time for vespers, supper, and compline, after which I went into the tiny chapel by my room and lay on the floor in front of the cross, my arms spread out on either side of me. I completely lost myself. At some point I managed to get back to my room and sleep for a few hours until I plunged out into the icy darkness with my flashlight to go to the 3:30 A.M. vigils. That morning was like the last. When I had first arrived, I marveled at the idea of the monks living thirty, forty, fifty years like that, doing manual labor, speaking rarely, waking at all hours to pray. How could anyone choose that life? At first it seemed so mindless. Now I was beginning to see it was mindful. Exhausting but mindful. On some level I envied them. There was truly a sense of peace there, a peace I craved and had just caught a glimpse of.
Before we departed, we all gathered in the library to talk about our experiences. Everyone had a deeply personal story to tell and everyone had been profoundly affected in some way by their short stay there. I brought my bare branch with me and explained what it meant.
I also brought it home with me and am looking at it now as I write. It rests in a tiny Chinese vase hung on the wall above my desk. It reminds me to be aware always of what is really important and meaningful in my life. That’s a gift.
* * *
It was during a kind of twilight zone period when Ben was on and off in terms of understanding what was going on with him. He had good days and bad days. During that time I got two requests for him to do interviews. Both of them were from close friends, but after the PathNorth interview episode with Jon Meacham, I didn’t want anything like that to happen again. I refused them both at first. Robert Redford, who played Bob Woodward in All the President’s Men, was doing a film about the making of the movie. Andy Lack, now the chairman of NBC News, was producing it. Andy was an old friend too, and they convinced me that they would protect Ben. They felt they couldn’t do it without Ben, so I finally relented.
Tom Brokaw wanted to interview Ben for a special he was doing on Jack Kennedy. Again I said no. Tom was a trusted friend and persuaded me that he would protect Ben as well. Ben was thrilled to be doing the interviews. He was excited and the whole thing seemed to make him feel vital.
As it turned out, the interviews were both difficult for Ben and very little of what he said was used, but Andy, Bob, and Tom were true to their word. When both films came out, Ben looked and sounded like his regular old self, but he wasn’t. Those were the last interviews he would do.
It broke my heart. How could this be happening to this brilliant, charismatic man? All the tectonic plates of my life were rearranging themselves. I had to come to grips with it. Few things have been harder.
* * *
In August of 2013, Jay Carney, then Barack Obama’s White House spokesman, called me to say that the president was going to award Ben the Medal of Freedom but that it was to be kept a secret until it was announced some weeks later. Ben was ecstatic, although I’m not sure at that point that he really understood what was happening. That night we had people for dinner, a number of journalists, and Ben announced to everyone that he was getting the Medal of Freedom. He had forgotten it was a secret. I made them all swear they wouldn’t say anything, but I lived in fear he would answer the phone or the door and blurt it out, which was exactly what he did. Somehow the story kept out of print for a while, but I did have to tell them that Ben was the leaker.
The ceremony was to be in November, and Ben was obsessed. Night after night he would get up at all hours and try to dress for the ceremony. I would have to convince him it wasn’t going to be until November, but at that point he had lost track of dates. The night before the awards I invited all his children, his grandchildren, his stepchildren, his step-grandchildren, and his nieces and nephews for a family party. Ben was in his element as he sat on the sofa surrounded by a rotating group of adoring kids cuddling, holding his hand, embracing him, and telling him they loved him.
I have to say that I was surprised at how important this medal was to Ben. Public affirmation of his achievements was something he had never really cared about. Actually, he had always been a bit uncomfortable with personal accolades. Especially in his later years, he was constantly being asked to be celebrated at various events. He almost always declined. “But for the honor of it all . . .” he would scoff. Yet, here we were, as Ben was about to receive the highest civilian honor an American can get and he was beside himself with excitement and anticipation.
It was less than a year away from his death. He must have known that he was coming to the end of his life. He had been reminiscing more than usual about his past with me and his friends (his long-term memory was still good, his short-term memory not so good). It occurred to me that in some way this medal represented to Ben so much that had given his life meaning. He had served in World War II, defending his country and its values. He had worked as a journalist for nearly sixty years, devoted to finding the facts and exposing the truth, defending the Constitution and the First Amendment and all that it stood for. He had fought the good fight, he had finished the race, he had kept the faith.
Now, surrounded by all the people he loved, he would be recognized for that in a truly American ritual by the president of the United States. For Ben, I believe, it was a highly spiritual moment in his life.
The plan was for me to go early to the White House for the rehearsal to stand in for Ben and he would come later. There was no way he could stand around for hours beforehand.
Among those who were being honored that day were Bill Clinton, Oprah Winfrey, and Gloria Steinem. The irony was that during Clinton’s presidency, some fifteen years earlier, Ben’s name was on the short list for the award. Unfortunately for Ben, it was shortly after the Monica Lewinsky story had broken and I had just written a particularly scathing piece in the Post about the president, quoting many prominent members of the establishment community excoriating him for his behavior. I was told that the president was seething mad and kept the story on his desk for weeks, ranting about it to anyone who would listen. So it was a surprise to those who gathered to go over the final list for the medal recipients that when Ben’s name came up, he spoke up enthusiastically, saying that Ben should definitely get it. He was asked why, considering the piece I had written about him. According to John Harris’s 2005 book, The Survivor: Bill Clinton in the White House, the president’s reply was “Anyone who sleeps with that bitch deserves a medal!” As you might expect, Ben didn’t get the medal that year.
Now, there we all were, Ben and Bill being honored together, one big happy family. I had walked through the drill along with the other recipients. They had to walk up the aisle of the East Room to the podium, get up the stairs, wait for their citation to be read, walk up to the president, receive the medal, get back to their chairs, and then get back down the stairs. I was frantic. I knew Ben couldn’t do it by himself. He was particularly out of it that morning, probably out of nervousness and excitement and lack of sleep. He had his good days and his bad days. This was a bad day.
Since the medals were awarded in alphabetical order, Clinton was directly behind Ben. In desperation I went to him and asked him if he would help Ben get through it. He couldn’t have been more gracious. He took Ben by the hand and guided him up the red carpet to the podium and helped him to his seat, signaled him when he was to get up, helped him over to the president, guided him back to his seat, and then took his arm and led him out of the room when it was over. I was so grateful to him.
At the reception the former president came over to me laughing. “Do you know what Ben asked me? He said, ‘Did I ever piss you off?’” “No,” responded Clinton, “but that’s only because by the time I became president you had already stepped down as editor.” I thanked him profusely. We kissed and made up.
Ben went home and slept the rest of the afternoon. Miraculously, when he woke up, he was himself again so we were able to go to the president’s dinner for all the honorees, present and past, celebrating the fiftieth year of the
medal itself.
We were lucky. Normally there is no dinner afterward, just the reception. We were all seated at a long rectangular table and President Obama made a point of going around the table and greeting everyone who was there. He spent an especially long time talking to Ben who held his own in the conversation, laughing and joking with Obama. It was as if he had had a giant bolt of energy come down from the sky and infuse his body with his Ben-ness. I couldn’t have been more proud or loved him more that night. I know how hard it must have been to rally but rally he did.
I told him how proud I was as we drifted off to sleep that night. He was truly happy. Around three in the morning he woke up and tried to get dressed to go get his medal. He continued to do that until he died a year later.
* * *
Ben and I started going to La Samanna on the French side of the Caribbean island of St. Martin the year or two after we got together. It was the perfect place, for us, a paradise. Ben was very good at vacations. He worked incredibly hard and he relaxed really well. We would stay for a week, take a suitcase full of books, and never leave the hotel. Our days were a haze of relaxation and dreaminess. The hotel was a Moroccan-style villa on a high point overlooking the sea, surrounded by lush vegetation, bougainvillea, and shaded by palms. A short walk down a slope were small individual villas right on the beach, simply furnished with bamboo sofas, white cushions, and hand-painted tiles.
Our daily routine was the same. Breakfast, croissants, and apricot jam on our little terrace a few paces from the water, reading on chaise longues on the beach under a thatched umbrella, swimming in the iridescent sea, lunch with rum drinks, long naps, more reading on the beach. Another swim, more reading, tennis for Ben, a long walk on the crescent sand for me.
It was my meditation walk. It took nearly an hour to get to the end, collecting beautiful shells as I went. I would find the perfect large stone to lean against. I would stare out to sea, across the water to a tiny rock island called Saba, a gray point against the landscape if it was hazy, a ghostly blur if it was not. Saba was my sacred touchstone. Each time I rested there I would relive the year behind me and contemplate what lay ahead. I never visited the island. It was too mystical, too magical to want to acknowledge its actual existence. I prayed to Saba. I talked to Saba. I wanted it to be there in the clouds, where I could hear nothing but the insistent rush of waves as I pondered about what it all meant. Often I would stay for an hour or so in my silent reverie before I headed back in time to watch the splendid sunset with Ben, just the two of us, knowing that it would rise the next day and we would still be there together.
We would go up to the hotel for cocktails at eight in the Moroccan bar, a romantic dinner on the terrace with a fabulous view of the twinkling lights from the cruise ships floating by, stars, moonlight, the soft sounds of the waves licking the shore, wonderful long dinners, more wine, and then to bed. Talk about magic.
We led hectic lives at home and this was always a time to regroup and reconnect. We never failed to come back more in love than ever. I said every year and I say it now, that was the happiest week of the year for me. Ben and I did this for forty years, always the week of Valentine’s Day.
I was seven months pregnant with Quinn there, sunbathing in the nude on a second-floor private terrace. After he was born, we took him there every year, first with a nanny, then with a friend, then with a girlfriend, then with his wife, Pari. When he was old enough to understand, we explained that this was our annual honeymoon week, but we missed him too much to leave him at home, while at the same time needing time alone. He totally got it and was almost apologetic about bothering us while we were there. He was happy to come in, give us hugs, and then run out to the beach or the pool, have dinners in his room watching movies and go to bed.
The February before Ben died, Quinn, Pari, and I collectively decided that it was best for them not to go. The past several years had been difficult for all of us because Ben was less and less engaged and more and more needy. Besides, I had a feeling this might be our last year there—which turned out to be the case—and I wanted to be alone with him the way we were in the beginning.
I hired a nurse to simply be there for him so that if I wanted to go read on the beach or swim or walk, he wouldn’t get confused or scared or wander off. He slept most of the day, had a late breakfast, came out to sunbathe for maybe half an hour, had no lunch, and napped for the rest of the afternoon. The nurse left at six.
At seven the first night, I gave him a shower, got him dressed, and we walked up the steep slope for dinner. He made it without complaining. I was dreading the dinner, anticipating a lifeless, monosyllabic Ben and me staring wistfully, tearfully out to sea, remembering the golden days. How wrong I was.
Every night, like the Nutcracker, Ben miraculously came to life. Once we had gotten to our favorite table for two on the edge of the terrace and ordered our bottle of wine, it was as though we had gone back in time. I have to admit I did most of the talking, laughing, gossiping, telling him funny stories, but he responded with enthusiasm and excitement. We would hold hands walking down the hill, fall into bed, and hold on to each other all night. It was the same each day. Ben was out of it until dinnertime and then rose to the occasion.
The last night was the most special. We held hands and kissed all through dinner and just stared lovingly at each other as if someone had sprinkled us with fairy dust. At the end of dinner Ben took both my hands and looked longingly at me. “I just want you to know,” he said, “that this has been the happiest week of my life. I never want it to end. I just want to stay here with you forever. You are the most fun person I know. I love you so much.”
I knew what he meant. I wanted to stop time, freeze us there, in our moonlit dream. We both knew, though it was unspoken, what lay ahead. We walked down the path to our room arm in arm and went to bed. That night he had a psychotic episode. The next morning he remembered nothing.
Chapter 21
If there is a meaning in life at all, then there must be a meaning in suffering. Suffering is an ineradicable part of life, even as fate and death. Without suffering and death human life cannot be complete.
—Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
It was the end of August and we were in East Hampton at Grey Gardens. I always had a big birthday party for Ben on the Saturday night closest to his birthday, which was the twenty-sixth. It was his favorite party of the year. In 2014 it was Ben’s ninety-third birthday. Though he would insist “I don’t want all that fuss,” he was quick to peer over my shoulder to check on the seating arrangements.
Ben was agitated, confused, and weak that day, though he had slept most of the morning and afternoon. There were more than forty invited for a seated dinner. He was lying on the bed, watching me get dressed, his favorite thing to do, and held up his hand, our signal for me to come over and take it. He looked at me with a mixture of sadness, apology, and maybe a little embarrassment. “I don’t think I’m going to make it, babe,” he said. I kissed him and told him it would be okay if he didn’t feel like it. Everyone would understand. If he felt up to it, he could come downstairs later.
Trying to put on a brave and cheerful face to greet our guests was extremely difficult. I managed to get through cocktails and announced dinner. As I led the way to the dining room, who should appear at the bottom of the steps but Ben, tan and gorgeous and dashing as usual in his Turnbull and Asser shirt with the white collar, white striped pants, a dark sweater, and the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. He was the host. He greeted everyone warmly, shook their hands, clapped them on the back, remembered their names—and if he didn’t he called them “chief” or “gorgeous.” He was the handsomest man in the room and the cockiest. He was Ben, my husband, the man. He had rallied yet again.
The party was a smash. Ben carried it off. He was clearly having a great time. The birthday cake arrived and he blew out the candles. I made a wish, wishing that he would keep living. I began the toasts, telling Ben how much
I loved him. What followed was one fabulous encomium after the other. Ben lit up. According to the toasts, Ben was clearly the greatest editor, man, human who ever lived. The more people drank the more over the top the toasts became. Steve Kroft gave a fabulous toast and then was so wound up that he gave it again, cheered on by the rowdy guests.
Then Ben tried to respond. He couldn’t and was clearly frustrated. He kept saying my name. It was becoming uncomfortable. I knew what he was trying to say, what he had said after all his birthday parties. I put my hand on his and said, “You can just say you love me if you want. You don’t need to say anything else.” He couldn’t get the words out. “I think everyone needs another drink,” I said loudly to the group and everyone seemed happy to let Ben off the hook. I got up and put my arms around his shoulders and whispered to him how much I loved him and how proud of him I was.
Suddenly, he was exhausted. He quietly got up and slipped out of the room. The party went on. Oh, Ben, how I wanted you to be able to stay and have a good time and be the life of the party the way you always were. How I wanted you back. I couldn’t wait to get up to my bed and hold him in my arms. I went upstairs and crawled into the bed and engulfed him. He had been asleep, but he knew I was there.
“I tried to say I loved you but I couldn’t,” he said. “I’m sorry, babe.”
“You were fantastic tonight,” I whispered. “Everyone said so. You really pulled it off.”
“It was a wonderful party,” he said. “You always do it so well. . . .”
He dozed off. I cried myself to sleep.
The doctors had told me Ben was in perfect health. He could live another five years. Yet I knew in my gut that night, for the first time, that he was leaving me. I lay in bed with Ben and thought about praying. As with Quinn, the night before his heart surgery, I didn’t know who to pray to. I didn’t know what to ask for. Did I really want Ben to live this way, or get worse, for another five years? I didn’t know what I wanted. I wasn’t angry. I felt defeated. I had always managed to overcome everything bad that had happened to me. But this? I didn’t want to drag Quinn down by letting him know how hopeless I felt. All I had to turn to was God. And God just wasn’t there for me at that moment.