My Wife Said You May Want to Marry Me

by Jason B. Rosenthal

  What a gift to have had these moments, and why shouldn’t the rest of us have them now, while we’re still healthy? What are we waiting for? How arrogant of us to believe there will always be “more time.”

  Seizing on the depth of this message was our eldest son, Justin. His new job brought him to California and a foray into the entertainment business. Despite his brutal schedule and the impeccable work ethic that had become a solid part of his values as a young adult, he traveled home to be with Amy every Friday on the red-eye flight. Incredibly, he was back at work on Monday. Justin intuitively knew how precious time was at this point in Amy’s life. He battled the physical exhaustion to make certain to spend time with his mom. Time that was clearly running out.

  Even though Amy’s days of eating solid foods were over, she had her brother bring his daughter over and threw her a Dorito party to celebrate her second birthday. As a lifelong chipaholic, Amy’s reputation preceded her when it came to her passion for the savory snacks. The joy on little Sadie’s face was palpable as the three of them enjoyed their chip party.

  She put on a corkscrew show for our nephew. In case you’ve never tried it, here’s how Amy did it, after noticing that corkscrews bear a vaguely acceptable resemblance to human beings: she shone a light behind our corkscrew to create a shadow on the wall and then had the animated corkscrew shadow puppet tell her nephew a story about how much she loved each and every one of her siblings’ children, even though there were so many of them.

  She cooked a favorite meal for her sister’s children.

  She sat with her siblings, detailing to each of them why she admired them as people and parents, and asked them to please step in for our kids if they observed a “parenting moment” that I might happen to miss.

  She discussed each one of our children with her family and close friends to make sure they’d have all the help and support they needed when they lost their mother—as if there was any question that our kids would ever be at a loss for unconditional love with such a close-knit group around them.

  She reminded them to be there for me. We all understood how important it was at that point to say all those things that “go without saying.”

  In other words, she did absolutely everything in her power to leave no unfinished business, let us know she was confidently, fearlessly, peacefully ready to leave, and see to it that we were as ready as we could be too.

  Then again, no matter how realistically prepared you think you are, no matter how many times you’ve played out that inevitable moment in your mind to brace yourself, it turns out that there’s no such thing as “ready.”

  10

  The End

  Why did God create people if he knew they were going to die someday?

  —Justin Krouse Rosenthal, age ten

  There are images of those final days that continue to haunt me.

  Walking backward to our bathroom, holding Amy up as she put one tentative foot in front of the other, her little legs barely able to hold her up. Praying every baby step of the way that I was holding her tightly enough that she wouldn’t fall over, but not so tightly that I could hurt her. I’m not such a big guy, but my arms looked and felt so healthy compared to her frail body.

  Confusion, delirium, and uncharacteristic restlessness. Out-of-character requests. I’d been warned that all those things might happen. Expecting them didn’t make them any less scary. Amy’s fistula had prevented her from indulging in her very favorite daily activity—taking a long, hot bath. One day when it was just the two of us, she insisted, out of nowhere, on getting in the tub. I wasn’t about to say no to her about anything at that point, so I ran just a bit of water and gently lifted her into the tub. Another time, something called “terminal agitation” kicked in—a frightening involuntary movement of the limbs that may occur near the end of life. Again, not unusual for doctors and hospice workers, maybe, but terrifying for those of us who’ve never seen it before. I can still see it in my mind, sometimes without even closing my eyes. It’s a hard one to shake off.

  So many questions I did not know the answers to overwhelmed me at the end of our time in home hospice. Was there anything I could do to relieve these awful symptoms? What was she thinking as she straddled the fence between life and death? Was she aware of what her body was going through? Would this blue medicine, aka morphine, help quiet her and ease her pain, or could a dropper of this clear liquid help her rest?

  I wanted it to end for her, and I never wanted to let her go.

  And then there’s the sequence of events that lingers most painfully.

  On March 13, 2017, Amy and I were lying in bed. Our bed. Our sacred place of comfort, canoodling, reading, and cherished moments of rest. Some seventy-five thousand hours of our lives together spent there. A nearby wall decorated with a Parisian scene in burnt umber. Chilewich flooring and floor-to-ceiling cream-colored drapes, every detail carefully selected when we built our dream house while our children were still in grade school. That place of peace on my side of the bed, where I routinely sat up to read while Amy took a hot bath in my line of vision in the bathroom due north through our walk-in closet.

  I had dozed off for a bit, with Amy right next to me. When I opened my eyes, I sensed that she was very, very still. I gently put my hand on her chest and waited for a minute or two.

  Then I slid out of bed, walked down the hall to our kids’ room, and simply said, “It’s over.”

  Amy was gone. Their mother, my wife, had succumbed to ovarian cancer.

  After taking care of the details I knew were on my list when the time came, I went back to our room, gathered her lifeless body in my arms, and carried her down our stairs, through our dining room, and through our living room to a gurney that was waiting to take her away. Rigor mortis had kicked in. Her body weighed almost nothing, but it was stiff.

  I was crying uncontrollably, so hard I was gasping for breath, when I let go of her, with loud, primal sounds that had never come out of me before.

  The funeral home folks wheeled the gurney out of our house. I never saw her again.

  In those first hours and days after Amy died, practical considerations inevitably took precedence over grief. She died on the thirteenth of March, and the kids and the family and I wanted a service as quickly as possible, so we set it for the fifteenth—not a great deal of time, obviously, to kick into gear and organize a proper memorial gathering.

  Amy and I had had many talks after her ovarian cancer diagnosis was declared terminal. Among the topics of conversation were what she wanted done with her body and what kind of service she’d prefer. I can’t emphasize strongly enough how important it is to work out these end-of-life details before the awful reality actually hits. Do it now, while you’re still alive and (hopefully) well. Take it from me, when the time comes, it’s impossible to think clearly. But because of our many conversations, the kids and the family and I weren’t left with any guesswork at all.

  What do you want done with your body? Amy wanted to be cremated.

  Do you want your service at a religious venue, or a secular one? Give consideration to the generations that came before you. Would a religious venue give more comfort to the surviving parents and grandparents? And if you choose a church, or synagogue, or other religious facility, will they permit you to design the service you and your family want? Are they equipped to play music, and are they open to secular songs if that’s what you choose? In our case, my best friend was president of a synagogue with a wonderful cantor to lead the service. She was very flexible and wide open to letting us design an occasion Amy would be proud of.

  In the Jewish faith there is typically a period of mourning called shiva, where friends and family gather for a specific allotment of time, typically two to seven days (only for the very religious). I completely respect the practice. Amy, on the other hand, was fairly incredulous at the idea that someone dies and then everyone gathers at a family member’s house to eat and drink. Having people descend on our home to eat and drin
k for days on end was not how she wanted to be remembered. We ended up striking what I still believe was a perfect balance between tradition and Amy’s wishes—we had the shiva immediately following the service, at the temple where it was held. With the help of a lot of Amy’s friends, our friends, the food and drinks, the decorations, the comfort level, the closeness, and the community in that room made it very respectful to Amy.

  What about music at the service? Any specific preferences? Music had been such a huge—maybe even massive—part of our lives, so I made a list, of course, of songs I thought might work at the service. There were some no-brainers: the rock band Wilco, for sure, and not just because they were a Chicago-based hometown favorite. We’d also been to many, many Wilco shows together, from huge stages like Lollapalooza to more intimate settings like the Lyric Opera House and the Vic. So we played one of their songs, “Jesus, Etc.,” at the service—yes, in a Jewish synagogue, but hey, this was all about Amy, right? Colin Hay’s “I Just Don’t Think I’ll Get Over You” was too appropriate for me to pass up, with brilliant, haunting lyrics like “No longer moved to drink strong whiskey / I shook the hand of time and I knew / That if I lived till I could no longer climb my stairs / I just don’t think I’ll get over you.” Our incredible cantor, who’d met with us in hospice and wanted Amy honored in true AKR style, sang a gorgeous rendition of Pearl Jam’s “Just Breathe”: “Stay with me. You’re all I see.” I still hear that song today and have to remind myself to “just breathe.”

  Believe it or not, shallow as it might sound, there was even a discussion about what the kids and I would wear to the service. I know, but it mattered to me to feel good about how I presented myself to the community, to the family, and to myself, if only to camouflage the utter and complete darkness I was drowning in emotionally. The four of us all made sure we had something really nice to wear that day, and it honestly did help.

  One of the most important questions you’ll want answers to in these end-of-life conversations is who should speak at the service. Amy and I gave this concept careful consideration. The hard part wasn’t coming up with names, it was narrowing it down to just a few. We were blessed throughout our lives together with so many truly extraordinary, magical people we loved and who loved us, people who started out as friends, or nannies, or mannies, or assistants, or collaborators and came to be family.

  Everyone we asked said yes, and everyone who spoke outside of the family gave me permission to share their words with you.

  Hearing other people’s words about Amy affected me in ways that, honestly, I never could have predicted. Of course, I’d known for years the effect that Amy had on people. Her gravity drew people in. Being a successful author meant that she had fans who loved and supported her work, so we often encountered people who would discuss the importance of her work to their lives or their kids’ lives. But this was different. These people knew her, other sides of her being, encounters that I’d seen and heard of but only from her point of view. To see her like this, through so many different pairs of eyes, was a gift that, frankly, I never anticipated, but I cherish it more today than I ever could have imagined.

  First there was Emily. Emily has the proud distinction of being our first connection to Appleton, Wisconsin. I am not sure what is in the water there, but clearly something we Rosenthals are drawn to. Emily will always hold a special place in our lives, not just for being such a wonderful human being with an infectious laugh but because she brought the sixth Rosie to us, our sweet and loyal dog Cougar. Emily started to work for Amy and our family when the kids were just six, eight, and ten. She stayed with us for two years.

  Emily was Amy’s assistant for one of the most exciting periods of time in her writing career. She assisted Amy with many facets of the extraordinary and unique memoir Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life. Emily had a front-row seat to observe the unparalleled way Amy connected with her readers. She helped her mail pies to readers who responded to one of the challenges in Amy’s book. She observed Amy’s distinctive way of making meaningful connections with her readers, whether that was interacting with them online, via email, or with homemade treats.

  Emily was quite young when she was with us and is now a proud mother of three herself. She credits her connection with Amy this way: “I can’t imagine being the person, the wife, or the mother I am today without her. I will forever be grateful for the many ways she impacted my life,” words she shared with the crowd that was gathered for Amy’s memorial service. Of course, time spent with Amy meant one had to engage in certain activities no other boss would require. Emily also shared this anecdote: “It should also be noted that, being the same size as Amy, I got a kick out of the fact that she would send me to her tailor to try on her clothes for alterations.” I know that memory will stay with Emily always.

  Due to Encyclopedia being such a large part of Emily’s life with our family, she ended her remarks with a favorite quote from that book:

  YOU

  Perhaps you think I didn’t matter because I lived _________ years ago, and back then life wasn’t as lifelike as it is to you now; that I didn’t truly, fully, with all my senses, experience life as you are presently experiencing it, or think about _________ as you do, with such intensity and frequency.

  But I was here.

  And I did things.

  I shopped for groceries. I stubbed my toe. I danced at a party in college and my dress spun around. I hugged my mother and father and hoped they would never die. I pulled change from my pocket. I wrote my name with my finger on a cold, fogged-up window. I used a dictionary. I had babies. I smelled someone barbecuing down the street. I cried to exhaustion. I got the hiccups. I grew breasts. I counted the tiles in my shower. I hoped something would happen. I had my blood pressure taken. I wrapped my leg around my husband’s leg in bed. I was rude when I shouldn’t have been. I watched the celloist’s bow go up and down, and adored the music he made. I picked a scab. I wished I was older. I wished I was younger. I loved my children. I loved mayonnaise. I sucked my thumb. I chewed on a blade of grass.

  I was here, you see, I was.

  Nick, who was from Appleton and went to school with Emily’s husband, spoke next. He came to us for an interview with shoulder-length unkempt hair, some sort of a lime green sweater, and an energy and enthusiasm the kids were drawn to immediately. It didn’t hurt that he was willing to take them on in a game of basketball at his first interview. Nick became a manny for our family, starting in 2005, when the kids were eight, ten, and twelve years old.

  The job was a combination of helping out with the kids and being Amy’s assistant. As Nick described, “You see their laundry. How they snack. You see them on their off days.” Little did we know that Nick had many hidden talents. Of significance was his musical prowess. That skill set not only endeared him to the kids but also became an entrée to a series of collaborations with Amy that included an amazing eighty-four pieces of music. Nick created original scores for a quite a few of Amy’s films and songs for her books, conducted performance art experiences with Amy, and encouraged her to write some original pieces. He described working for Amy as being “like I’d won a lottery to be a wizard’s apprentice.”

  And this wizard will display constant kindness, peerless positivity, and will consistently err on the side of generosity toward said apprentice. That is an actual thing. It’s possible. I’ve witnessed it. I experienced it.

  Nick is a virtuoso on the piano, but he can also sing, play the mandolin, and compose music with the best of them. I would often hear Amy, as she stood at her computer, where she was known to work in our house, listening to clip after clip of some composition Nick had created for this or that project. Our family had the added bonus of appreciating Nick’s creativity with a birthday song or video created just for the occasion. These were always silly and funny but also brilliant and original works of art. For his part, Nick talked to the crowd gathered for Amy’s memorial service and discussed the unique nature of his working relationship w
ith Amy:

  What really set her apart as an art partner was that you got the sense that she wanted to work with you because she was a fan of yours. She loved you and wanted to make something cool with you. She didn’t hire you to be a cog. She wanted you to do your thing. In that sense, she didn’t treat you how she wanted to be treated. She treated you how you wanted to be treated. And therein, she wanted you to succeed.

  As Nick concluded his remarks that day, the throngs that were gathered could hear Amy’s voice begin to echo through the synagogue sound system, singing her and Nick’s song “Wanna.” I was the one who’d planned the service, so, of course, I’d known this was coming. Still, it was impossible not to be utterly devastated by the sound of her voice. But almost immediately everyone in the sanctuary was smiling through the tears as her incredible genius for wordplay winked at us through her lyrics:

  Wanna roast a marshmallow

  lightly charred

  Wanna rhyme this with

  Jean-Luc Godard

  Wanna be like a battery

  A total diehard but if my time is up

  I know I lived and loved hard

  Nick shared with us the evolution of that song:

  One of the last projects we collaborated on was a challenge that I issued to her last September. She had always been the initiator prior to this. I said, we should write a song together, Amy. You do the lyrics; I’ll write the music. But you gotta sing it. She was hesitant about singing for fear of singing, but I said, if you don’t sing, deal’s off. A week later she had written five poems and was talking about doing an entire album!