by Diane Rehm
DIANE: I also wonder how generous we should be as grandparents. It's all so different from my role as parent. Of course, I wanted to make sure that our kids had what they needed, but with our grandchildren I feel as though—and perhaps it's because we're in a different, more settled place materially —I want to give them everything we possibly can. I'm sure age has something to do with it. You can't take anything to the grave with you, and I want to make sure that these grandchildren are generously but carefully taken care of.
JOHN: I like the use of the word “carefully.” One can be quite generous in monetary and similar ways with one's grandchildren, but at the same time, my hope would be to instill values unrelated to the material world—honesty, decency, compassion. If they're in reasonable balance, then I think one can afford to be fairly generous with one's grandchildren without spoiling them, in the sense of not making them too attached to material goods.
DIANE: Do you find the display of affection easier with Benjamin at age three than you did with David and Jennie at age three?
JOHN: Oh yes, I think so. With respect to our children, a show of affection tended to take place—for me at least—in a context of overall parental responsibility. Maybe I had concerns about too little or too much expression of warmth and love. In the case of our grandchildren, I'm largely freed of those preoccupations, and I can hug and kiss with a certain abandon. That's one of the joyous aspects of grandparenting.
DIANE: I think I felt more free than you did in hugging and kissing and playing with them when they were infants and children. I think you needed to wait until they were almost five or six before you really got into it. As they grew older, you were more able to relate to them. Now I see you with Benjamin, holding him in ways that I don't think you held David.
JOHN: Your memory is better than mine. I certainly sense an ease and freedom in holding Benjamin, playing with him, and talking with him, because he has his own vocabulary now, though it's not always intelligible to his grandparents. That's a special quality of being a grandparent. But I do want to make one point: it's easy for us to talk about the joys of being grandparents, but we couldn't be as close to our grandchildren unless a really solid foundation had been created by their parents. I trust we will see these three children becoming the responsible and caring adults we would want them to be.
DIANE: I like the ways we stay in touch with our grandchildren. We have the chance to speak with and visit Alex fairly often, but I find myself yearning to see Benjamin and Sarah more often, because these are the years they are growing and changing so rapidly. The photographs that Jennie and Russell send regularly are wonderful, but I want to see the kids and their parents more frequently.
JOHN: Among the many consequences of September 11, 2001, will be a greater sensitivity to occasions when we can get together. I think we'll find ourselves planning reunions of one kind or another more deliberately. As many commentators have said—and I think quite rightly—September 11 has made us more aware of being alive—
DIANE: —and of the people we love.
Death
John
As I grow older, I find myself confronting death more often— my death and that of others. The obituary page has ceased to be irrelevant. The number of funerals and memorial services I attend has grown. I've even begun to select the hymns I would like sung at my memorial service.
All of these encounters with death leave unanswered, of course, the transcendent questions, namely, what will my death mean? Will it be no more than a cessation of bodily functions? Will it entail a new form of continuing life? And will I, as my finite self, experience some intimation of that life?
Recently I've become aware of yet another aspect of death. This is what I call the priority of death in a marriage or comparable relationship. It is a virtual certainty that, barring some catastrophe, either Diane or I will predecease the other. We have discussed this eventuality only sporadically. Diane will say, for example, “Don't you dare leave me alone.” Or, anticipating her death before mine, “Make sure that the paintings and furniture are passed on to Jennie and David.” In Diane's mind and perhaps mine as well, the prospect of being the surviving spouse seems its own kind of death.
What is at stake is the demise not only of one's partner but of the partnership itself. A marriage is, I think, successful to the extent that its participants consciously create the entity that binds them together. That entity is more than what each partner brings to it. An uncommitted relationship entails no more than cohabitation. A committed relationship demands a collaboration in order to develop and endure.
Over the centuries, some of the best minds have clung to the hope of somehow communicating with a deceased spouse. I have no such illusion. If I survive Diane, however, I'll be able to draw on a rich bank of memories. Admittedly, such memories stir mixed feelings. On the one hand, they can dull the sharpness of separation; on the other, they can freshen the sadness of loss.
All of which intensifies my determination to continue celebrating Diane's and my partnership. That celebration regards each day as a gift—not to be slighted or taken for granted. And as a gift, it is of infinite value, oblivious to the finitude of coming days.
Diane
When I was a little girl, I remember telling my mother over and over again that I didn't want her to die before I did. In my childhood imagination, I simply could not picture life without my mother in it. Even with all the difficulties I experienced as her daughter, I never wanted her to leave me behind.
As I look ahead to a time that's approaching—who can know when or where—either John or I will almost certainly leave this earth before the other. I feel sad at anticipating our parting, and now more apprehensive as well, as we live through the events since September 11, 2001. John and I have shared so much that I have a hard time imagining not having him by my side to talk over and remember the experiences, the mistakes, the good times, and the small things. Even now, after all these years of marriage, if I awaken earlier than John and the sky is particularly beautiful, I want him to come to the window and see it with me. If I'm in the garden alone and there's a sweet new rose in bloom, I call John to come and share it with me. We take long walks together, watching the young children in the neighborhood trying out their two-wheelers, and almost simultaneously we remember watching Jennie train herself to ride a unicycle, getting back on each time she fell off, determined to master it. Or, as we watch a young neighbor's boy grow into manhood, and see him drive away in his family's car, recalling David's excitement and seriousness when he received his own first car. So many memories. Simple things, like reading the newspaper together on Sunday mornings, each of us pointing out a story to the other, exclaiming with wonder over one item, reacting with horror at another. Each of those moments I am holding in my memory, because I fear that someday, that may be all I have of him.
Over the years, I've interviewed many widows who have written about the experience of losing a spouse. By the time they're finally able to write about the loss, most of the extreme forms of sadness are past. But what I've found interesting is the amount of anger that remains, not because of what went on in the marriage but because the husband has simply died. The widow has been left behind, to grieve, mourn, and try to figure out the rest of her life.
Because I've been professionally involved in an extremely demanding job for more than twenty years, I know how much I've come to depend on John to carry out many of the details that keep our lives running smoothly. He watches over me, and he reminds me to take care of myself. I ask myself whether I will be willing and able to fill in all the gaps he would leave behind, should he die before me. And I ask myself, if I am left behind, will I remain engaged in life with the joy and enthusiasm I have come to know in the past few years? Or without his support will I withdraw into myself?
My father died less than a year after my mother died. I've always believed he died of a broken heart. Now that John and I have lived together in this marriage for forty-two years, I can bett
er understand why.
Dialogue on Death
DIANE: I think the older I get, the less afraid I become of death. I think I fear your death, or that of someone close to me, more than I fear my own. The notion of death as a long sleep that doesn't have an end doesn't frighten me. Of course, I would love to see our grandchildren grow into adulthood. I'd love to be present at their marriages, if that's what they choose.
JOHN: I have a strong sense of the unreality of death. Death is preeminently a subject that puts the heart in opposition to the mind. Rationally, of course, I know that I will die and that you will die, but I really can't deal with that contingency. Death is an abstraction that doesn't carry much weight, and particularly today. As we look out over our beautiful garden on this superb autumnal afternoon, the idea of death seems remote indeed. But I agree with you that it's harder to contemplate the death of those in the family, children as well as spouse, and particularly the notion of having to spend what might be a significant part of life without the other. That's a kind of death that may be more difficult than one's own dying.
DIANE: All of us probably fear a long and painful illness that takes us to the end of life without dignity and the presence of those we love. I'm determined that that's not going to happen to me. I feel that I can have a measure of control over my end. I agree with you that life after the other spouse's death would not be easy and would require a remaking of one's day-to-day existence, without the companionship and warmth that have become so important to both of us, especially as we've grown older. But I must say my faith tells me that all those we love will be together, in some way, in some form, after life has ended. My belief tells me that life, in all its forms, is ongoing. We'll perceive each other's presence, even as we move along in our own lives.
JOHN: That raises an idea I've been kicking around. Normally, as we think of a dead person—and particularly a dead spouse—we try to console ourselves with the notion that we can draw on memories to keep us going and maintain the relationship. But that's a matter of constantly looking backward. I wonder if there's a way of looking forward, and although the spouse is dead, nevertheless being able to—this may sound a little crazy—establish an active relationship in which the deceased spouse enters into a kind of conversation with the surviving spouse. It would be more than drawing upon passive memories; it would involve conducting an ongoing relationship of a kind.
DIANE: Give me an example. Do you mean that if one has a big decision to make—to sell a house, say, or move elsewhere— one begins to conduct a dialogue that might have gone on with the spouse?
JOHN: Actually, I hadn't been thinking in practical terms. I had in mind more of a spiritual conversation, although it would turn on the events of the world and the events of my life. But I wouldn't preclude a conversation where one seeks help or enlightenment from the deceased spouse.
DIANE: I guess one of the basic questions that individuals who've been together for a long time ask each other is: Would you marry again after my death, or would I marry again after your death? How do you answer the question?
JOHN: I don't have any fundamental objection. It's often been said that if the surviving spouse is interested in a new marriage, that's evidence that the first relationship was successful and afforded a healthy foundation for a second relationship. The notion that remarriage is disloyal is something I've never agreed with.
DIANE: I take the view that learning to live with someone over forty-two years has been a long, rich, and vital process. My question would be how much of that learning I would be able to bring to another relationship, and I'm not sure what the answer is.
JOHN: I think the patience, sensitivity, and willingness to share thoughts engendered by the first relationship would all go to provide a good basis for the next relationship.
DIANE: At the same time, I find myself thinking in another direction, especially because I've rarely been alone in my life, except for the year between the time I was divorced and you and I were married. I wonder what it would be like to be alone, to make decisions for myself and not have to take into account someone else's desires. I'm not saying that I know which way I'd go, but that's something else that comes into my mind. I love your idea of somehow finding a way to have conversations in the future, whether they're about practical things or whether they're simply a joining of minds.
JOHN: As for living alone, of course I've done a lot of that. It was true in college when, after my freshman year, I had my own room. In law school I was essentially alone. Before our marriage, I had several years of living alone here in Washington. In a sense, it might be too easy for me to resume a life alone. I think I might be drawn to the idea of a second relationship, assuming the circumstances were propitious.
DIANE: You know, it's really interesting to see the extent to which you and I have almost exchanged positions. I'm the one who for so long fought against being alone, and you're the one who for so long insisted on being alone. Now, after all these years of marriage, as we contemplate the end of the life of the other spouse, we've somehow changed positions on that.
JOHN: Yes, to some extent I think we have. I'm struck by this conversation, because we've begun to sketch out—and I don't think you and I have ever done this before—some of our thoughts about how the survivor could have a rewarding life even after the death of his or her spouse. There may be more life after the death of the spouse than I had thought about to this point.
DIANE: It's long been said that women are the survivors. Women can and do live as widows for many many years. Men, on the other hand, need the companionship, and therefore men tend to marry again—or at least establish new relationships— fairly quickly, because they're uncomfortable without having that other person in their lives.
JOHN: I think that may be a passing phenomenon. It goes back to a time when men really didn't have much ability or talent to take care of themselves.
DIANE: I think there are still men like that….
JOHN: Yes, but I think they're a declining number. There are more men who are able to care for themselves.
DIANE: Does this conversation make you uncomfortable?
JOHN: No, surprisingly not. But I really have to come back to my first point. It's deceptively easy to talk about death when— although it could occur tomorrow or in the next minute—it's still fairly remote. If you and I were having this conversation when both of us were seriously ill, I think we'd be talking in somewhat different ways.
DIANE: I think you're absolutely right. Therefore I want to come back to something I said in my essay. I really do cherish each and every minute that you and I have, and I hope that we will have many more years together.
JOHN: And I would simply add that you and I are both sensitive to the need to celebrate each day as a gift, because that's what it is.
Conclusion
We wrote most of this book under idyllic circumstances. We were able to take advantage of a long, uninterrupted vacation at our farm in a remote area of northeastern Pennsylvania. Most days we were entirely by ourselves, deep in the quiet and—as visitors invariably sense—the magic of the place.
We quickly established what proved to be a productive regime. We got up at the deliciously late hour of 7: 30 a.m. After a leisurely breakfast, we spent a good three hours or so writing and editing essays and conducting and recording dialogues, which Diane would then transcribe. After lunch outside on the patio, we devoted the afternoon to long walks, work around the house, and reading. Diane also used this time to stay in touch with her office through a battery of electronic equipment. We concluded the day with dinner—often before an open fire—and the amusement of a favorite video. Then to bed around 10: 00 p.m., anticipating another fruitful tomorrow. Even at the time, we knew how precious these days were, and how their memory would be cherished.
Writing this book has been a journey of unexpected pleasure, as well as learning, for both of us. To be sure, along the way we've dealt with dark and painful episodes in our marriage. But we've also
illumined some of the enduring strengths of our relationship. We've tried to address each topic fairly and honestly, in both the essays and the dialogues.
The process has brought us closer together. It's demonstrated our ability to collaborate effectively over particularly sensitive terrain. We've respected each other's views, and we've acknowledged our disagreements as well as agreements. A joint authorship can be a hazardous enterprise, especially since humans invest so much of themselves in the written word. We've been happily surprised by the relative ease with which we settled on the text of each topic.
Moreover, writing the book has given us the mutual opportunity to say to each other, “Thank you for sustaining our marriage, and forgive me for letting you and the marriage down at times.” The very act of staying together for over forty years implies, we think, such gratitude and forgiveness. But this book represents a particularly enduring way of expressing such forms of love and therefore love itself.
Now, out of the struggles we've had, some successful, others not successful, we would modestly offer four suggestions toward promoting a long-lasting relationship.
Communicate feelings as well as thoughts to your partner. The most rational dialogue can miss the point if both partners are not sharing their feelings. Moreover, such sharing will strengthen the relationship, since it will reveal more of the partners' true selves.