On My Own

by Diane Rehm

  It’s a funny thing about marriage. We seek out those who we believe can fulfill us, who can provide us what has been lacking in our childhood. I believe I chose John, and knew instinctively he was the right man for me, because he was so kind and attentive. In the same way, he chose me because he could be my teacher, and I his pupil, adoring him and needing his assistance and guidance all the way. Ultimately, however, when my career took off, and his was on the decline, the very basis for our marriage began to shift, and we struggled to keep our relationship alive.

  I remain so grateful that we did stay together, that we were able to support each other, perhaps in ways we might never have imagined at the beginning of our relationship, right to the very end.

  Waves of Grief

  Tomorrow I leave for Portland, Oregon, for another voice treatment. From there I’ll travel to Boston to see Jennie and her family. Before John became ill, he enjoyed going with me to Boston, relishing the time, however brief, spent with the family. But gradually, as he weakened, he confessed that it was too much for him. The hassle of going through airport security, of sleeping in a bed not his own, of being with people longer than he was used to being, discouraged him from making these trips. There had also been a series of NPR/WAMU cruises, which we took many times and which he enjoyed immensely. Then on the last one we took together—to Egypt and Jordan—it was clear how increasingly difficult it had been for him. At one point, he was separated from the rest of the group, not realizing he’d wandered away. I worried about him the entire time. In fact, he got very ill on that last trip, coming down, as many other passengers did, with the norovirus, which forced him to stay in bed for a good part of the cruise. After that, he regretfully declined to join me on these expeditions, saying it had just become too hard for him. I missed him badly, but at least I was free from the anxiety of having to watch him so closely.

  As I packed for my trip, I was hit with a wave of grief. On many occasions in the past when I left home, especially without John, sadness settled into my bones. Whether it was just going out of town for two days for work or going on the first cruise without him, I found it was incredibly stressful. Separation anxiety always seemed to undo me.

  Today, that feeling is overwhelming. The long trip ahead brings on a deep sense of loneliness, realizing that I now fly alone. When I leave the apartment to run an errand, I leave the radio on, so that I can hear a human voice when I return. I was planning to attend an embassy function this evening, but even after I put on my dress, I thought, I can’t do this. I don’t have the energy needed to greet people with a smile. I am overcome with grief. Will it always come in waves this way? Will it overcome me totally and unexpectedly? I have no energy. I have no reserves on which to call. But at the same time I know I have to keep going. I feel divided from myself. I wonder whether others who’ve lost a partner or spouse or child experience these periodic waves they don’t see coming.

  After my voice treatment in Portland, I rose at 3:00 a.m. to catch an early flight to Boston. What a shot of exuberance that turned out to be! First, in addition to Jennie’s wonderful family, there are three dogs, two of them rescues, brought home after weekly volunteer shifts at a local animal shelter. The three all bark simultaneously, galloping from room to room, jumping up not only on people but on furniture. They’re all so sweet and adorable!

  Since the weather was unbearably cold, we opted for a fire and a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, made up of wickedly confusing and interlocking pieces creating a huge mélange of candy bars—every single candy bar I’ve ever eaten plus some I’ve never heard of. What fun, and what a challenge! In a total of ten hours, the puzzle was complete and we were hilarious in triumph.

  The next day was the big football game determining whether the Patriots would go to the Super Bowl, so Jennie and I made a big pot of chili—without beans. I could scarcely imagine such a thing, but the Rehm-Zide family does not consume legumes—of any kind. Then it was off to the airport, another parting, another separation, but in fact filled with happy memories to carry me homeward.

  What Lies Ahead

  It was undoubtedly the stopover in Boston that did it, but I got home feeling rejuvenated rather than exhausted, as I ordinarily am after a voice treatment. Being with Benjamin and Sarah and their parents—watching them as they maneuvered through their overlapping schedules—is so uplifting. Young, bright kids with so much life ahead, and such loving parents to guide them.

  When I see Jennie and Russell’s involvement with their children, I feel regret that John and I were not there in that way for her and David. Times were different. The world was somewhat less child-centric than it is today, and seeing how much fun my daughter and her family have together makes me sad that those years when she was growing up were not happier ones, for all of us. John was so involved in his career while I was struggling to establish my own that we didn’t enjoy those years together as I see this family doing.

  And now I begin to wind down my career. It’s time, I believe, to have a younger voice in the ten-to-noon national spot. I’m not thinking of it as an act of generosity—rather, one of realism. All of media is seeking younger people as listeners, viewers, participants. And by the close of 2016, I’ll be eighty years old.

  The network and my listeners have grown used to my gravelly, breaking voice, but as I hear the speed with which younger voices permeate broadcast and cable, my sense of my own voice and the difficulties it imposes, both for me and for the listener, begins to take hold. Something new and fresh is needed. It’s time for me to move on.

  As we at WAMU proceed with discussions about my retirement from the microphone, I realize I’m feeling a growing sense of depression, in regard both to the pending loss of a huge part of my identity and to concerns about my financial future. However, my financial advisers have helped to create a balanced plan for me that should allow me to live in comfort—certainly not luxury—for the rest of my life.

  But after what seems a lifetime of delving into issues that are not only interesting but absorbing, I wonder whether I’ll be able to find fulfillment in other activities. Every weekday morning I’m forced to slough off some of the emotional heaviness I’m beginning to experience as the red light signaling “on air” goes on. I have to maintain my energy, my interest, my concentration, and for the most part I’m able to do that. Yet as I sit at my desk in my office, a room flooded with light, surrounded by photographs of my husband and family, and hearing our producers as they discuss the program about to begin and the one coming up tomorrow, I know I’m already feeling a sense of profound loss. In the year and a half remaining to me in this position, I must find a way to allow myself both to understand and to accept those feelings while trying to bury them as I go on doing my daily work. So even as I continue to experience the loss of John, I am working to adjust myself in anticipation of the loss of what has been my daily occupation.

  There’s a conflict raging inside. I cannot imagine very many people, especially those of my age who are healthy and able-bodied, wanting to give up something so precious as work that is so interesting and so fulfilling. Yet I recognize and acknowledge that I am getting tired: tired of having to be “on” all the time; tired of having to awaken so early in the morning; tired of having to go to bed so early at night; tired of having to concentrate so hard each and every day. I know that it’s time to retire because I’m slowing down. It’s hard to admit that to myself, but I do feel it—I’m more tired at the end of each day than I ever used to be, and I recognize that’s natural. But it’s hard to give in to this reality, hard to say to myself: Diane, it’s time.

  Of course, that prospect brings on even more grief. How will I fill the void left after what will be more than thirty-seven years at the radio station that has been at the center of my life? Who will I be? I remain a mother and grandmother, but only at a distance. I remain a woman of strength, of ideas, of energy, so how will I focus the years I have remaining to me?

  Today’s Easter service at the Na
tional Cathedral was the first I’ve attended without John. As always, the flowers, the music, the sense of celebration was everywhere, and most especially in the sermon given by Bishop Mariann Budde. She is bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, which includes not only this city but large swaths of Maryland.

  Easter, of course, celebrates the resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth, crucified on the cross, according to the New Testament, after he was condemned to death on what we Christians call Good Friday. On the third day, the tomb where he’d been laid was found by Mary Magdalene to be empty, with only the shroud in which he’d been wrapped when taken from the cross still remaining.

  Bishop Mariann (as she prefers to be called) spoke of how all of us have experienced some loss, some regret, some major sadness in our lives, and how that feeling of loss may dwell with us for long periods, even a lifetime. But, she said, all of us have it within ourselves to move on, to experience a resurrection, to know life in a different way from what it was before our loss; life without that person or that body of work or that major element that had previously been a central part of our existence.

  I thought of John, and how much he loved this service of Easter, singing so joyfully the hymns celebrating what became the foundation of Christianity, the resurrection of Christ Jesus. I thought of John’s ability to listen, to be exquisitely conscious of what others around him were saying and even feeling. I thought of his extraordinary kindness to others—the beggars on the street whom I would pass while John unfailingly stopped to offer a dollar or two. I thought of his own conversion experience there in New York, after a lifetime of rejecting Christ, at the Church of St. Thomas the Doubter.

  And then I began to wonder about my own transitions, not only from married woman to widow but also from national radio talk-show host to…who knows what?

  Bishop Mariann talked about herself in terms of questioning what comes next, looking ahead, thinking of a new path as a step forward, recognizing and accepting the loss of what was but allowing new ideas to take hold, feeling the courage to face the unknown, and knowing that we can do what it takes to be ready, to be, as she put it, “poised for resurrection.”

  Her sermon spoke directly to me, addressing the challenges and opportunities and feelings lying ahead of me. Relief at freedom. Ability to move forward and adjust. A year and a half away. It should be an occasion for sadness but also for excitement. Feeling at times like a frightened child. The little girl in me comes out and says, “I’m scared!”

  Then real life intervenes. A leak developed in the penthouse above my condo, and water leaked into my living room ceiling. Now there’s a four-by-six-foot opening exposing pipes, pulling out insulation, my living room walls devoid of art, the girandoles down from the wall, the piano and all furniture moved out of the way. A nightmare. Good thing I wasn’t planning an Easter brunch!

  Planning for the Future

  I don’t believe I have the courage John showed at the end of his life. It was extraordinarily brave of him to make the decision he made, and to carry it out. I’m not sure I would have the willpower to deprive myself of food and water for a period of ten days. Rather, if I find myself facing a prolonged and painful illness, I will seek an organization or an individual to help me carry out my wishes. As I’ve said before, the fact that we in this country, with the exception of a few states, continue to deny individuals the right to choose to be helped in dying seems to me a violation of the most basic human right.

  I was extremely heartened by the unanimous decision, in February 2015, of the Supreme Court of Canada to strike down laws banning physician-assisted suicide for patients with “grievous and irremediable” medical conditions. The Court wrote: “The prohibition on physician-assisted dying infringes the right to life, liberty and security of the person in a manner that is not in accordance with the principles of fundamental justice.” The Canadian Medical Association established a new policy that allows physicians to “follow their conscience when deciding whether to provide medical aid in dying.”

  Even more recently, a case in Victoria, British Columbia, is grappling with the issue of whether a nursing home can deny the family of a woman who has Alzheimer’s the right to stop providing nourishment and liquids. The patient, in her pre-Alzheimer’s illness, signed documents stating her wish not to have her life prolonged with food or liquid should she become incapable of caring for herself. But the institution in which this woman resides believes its own standards and beliefs supersede those of the patient and her family.

  That is what I fear: that my desire to take control of my life and end my own suffering will not be honored.

  Since John’s death, I’ve done several radio programs about aid in dying or, as its critics prefer to call it, assisted suicide. I’ve heard many people express very strong views both for and against a terminally ill person’s right to take his or her own life using prescribed medications. So I’m aware that there are many people who believe a patient’s desire to die can be alleviated by simply providing appropriate care. As California debated its own End of Life Option Act, opponents like Ira Byock, MD, a palliative-care physician, agreed that “Americans have a Constitutional right to refuse life-prolonging treatments.” He went on to express his concerns, however, about a physician’s involvement in ending a patient’s life by saying that “there’s a big difference between being allowed to die of your disease and having a doctor intentionally end your life.” He argued for more education of young physicians in palliative care and managing pain.

  Atul Gawande, in his book Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End, acknowledges that medical school textbooks teach very little about aging, frailty, or dying. He writes, “The purpose of medical schooling was to teach how to save lives, not how to tend to their demise.” He argues, as does Dr. Byock, that medical studies must be improved to incorporate more focus on palliative care to relieve prolonged suffering. However, during a recent hour on my program, when I asked for his thoughts on a physician’s assisting patients to die, he said, “I’m not there yet.”

  I would wish to be provided with medication with which to end my life at the time of my choosing. There may be considerable pain that factors into my decision, or it may be that I fear loss of my ability to lead what to my mind is a meaningful life. If I’m unable to feed myself, to toilet myself, to stand or walk on my own, to make rational choices, I want my family to understand that it’s time for me to go—that it’s my decision for myself and no one else’s.

  I respect the arguments made by Dr. Byock and those who believe that life should end naturally. However, I’ve known of too many instances where “naturally” meant after years of suffering, not only for the individual but for the family. And I do believe the family must be taken into account. I wouldn’t wish to put my family through the extended ordeal of my dying. When the time comes to end my life, I will give thanks for all I have had, for all I have been given, and hope to go peacefully, with the help of a physician.

  On November 5, 2014, barely five months after John died, Patricia Harrison, president and CEO of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, invited me to attend a dinner to discuss Parkinson’s disease. There were twenty of us seated in a private room of a Georgetown restaurant, Cafe Milano. All of us were asked to speak briefly about our own involvement with Parkinson’s. When it came to me, I stood and spoke about the fact that John had reached the end of his battle with the disease by starving himself, refusing water and all medications. I spoke briefly about how difficult it was to watch him withdraw from life, albeit on his own terms, and stated my own wish that he had had an easier and more compassionate end-of-life experience. I went on to say that I hoped eventually we would all have a right to choose when and how we die, with the aid of a physician, if we have been deemed terminally ill.

  As fate would have it, present at that dinner was Michael Rosenwald, a reporter for the Washington Post. He approached me after dinner and asked whether he might call me to talk further about John’
s death and our experience as he chose to die. I agreed to speak with him and told him then just how strongly I felt about the issues surrounding aid in dying.

  Several weeks later, Mike came to my office, where we sat and talked for nearly ninety minutes, going back over the very first conversations John and I had had regarding our belief in the right to die and our promise to help each other when the time came.

  On Sunday, February 15, 2015, the Post published his front-page article titled “Rehm’s Topic: Death with Self-Determination.” Mike wrote of my frustration at the inability of those dying in most states to achieve a peaceful end. The article mentioned that I would be the featured guest at three dinners planned by Compassion & Choices (C & C) to share my experiences and to hear from others about their own end-of-life wishes. Guests were asked to pay $2,500 per person, with all proceeds going to C & C.

  After people at WAMU and top executives of the distributor of my program, NPR, read the article, as did the NPR ombudsman, who said she believed that attending such dinners violated NPR’s ethical standards, they asked to meet with me. The NPR executives and their specialists came to our studios to talk with me and our station’s general manager, J. J. Yore. They expressed concerns about my attending these paid dinners, suggesting that my presence would raise doubts about my journalistic integrity, about my ability to hold discussions on the subject of aid in dying as an unbiased host.

  Together, we finally agreed that I would attend the remaining two already fully subscribed dinners, but no more. I told them I was saddened by their belief that I should cut short my active participation in these dinners but would reluctantly accede to their wishes.