Happiness Is a Glass Half Full

Several weeks ago, as I was walking along Broadway, I met a neighborhood acquaintance, a single woman in her late sixties. I hadn’t seen her in a while and she asked how I was doing, since Richard had passed last summer. “Okay,” I told her, “it’s such a relief knowing he’s without pain.” “I don’t know how you did it,” she said. “I could never have managed caring for my father at home in his final years. It’s such an intimate experience”. “Yes, it is,” I agreed, “but it’s different with a spouse—intimacy is part of the relationship.” “Maybe,” she said, “that’s why I never got married.”          

The next week, I had lunch with a neighbor in my building, whom I’ve gotten to know quite well since her husband died several years ago after a short illness. She happened to ask me the same question, and I gave her the same answer. “I could never have cared for my husband at home,” she said, “it’s just not in me. Thank goodness he was in a nursing home.” “But what,” I asked, “if he hadn’t wanted to be in a nursing home?” “He never mentioned it. When he left the hospital, he went straight to a nursing home. But I’ve felt guilty ever since.”

Then, just last week, in Syracuse for my granddaughter Sophie’s graduation, I chatted with her best friend’s mother, whom I hadn’t seen since before Richard died. “I’m so sorry,” she said, belatedly. “After all you’ve been though, you must be having a hard time.” “Not really,” I said. “Actually, I’m enjoying life more than I expected to.” She gulped and said, “Really? You’re doing okay?” sounding as if she hadn’t heard me right. “Really,” I replied, saying that although I did miss Richard, I did enjoy living on my own, knowing that he was in a better place. “Good for you,” she said, “I hope I’m able to do as well under similar circumstances; I pray I never have to.”

All three incidents have made me think more about my life since Richard died, ten months ago, and why I’ve adjusted to his passing with such acceptance. The surprising fact is…I’m as happy as I’ve ever been.

Maybe it’s because Richard and I discussed the probability of his dying regularly, as we discussed almost everything else in our lives. He knew that I could—and would—carry on a full life after he passed. And insisted that I not feel guilty about it. He thanked me for letting him die at home; I wouldn’t have lasted two days in a nursing home, he kept saying. I didn’t want you to die alone, I told him, only at home with me.

Maybe it’s because Richard handled his illness with such understanding and acceptance. He endured the indignity of having his colostomy bags and diapers changed by the nurses and me. He even let our daughter-in-law help perform the intimate tasks one weekend when I was away and the nurse needed assistance.

Or because during his long illness, we continued to live as normally as possible, loving one another, arguing with one another, discussing daily how to deal with his illness. He wanted to know everything, the good and the bad, despite the advice of some of the nurses. He doesn’t have to know everything, they’d tell me. At which point, Richard would yell out the best he could: If you’re talking about me, I want to know!

It might even be, truth be told, that I’m glad not to have to deal with my dear Richard’s less appealing features. He could be very stubborn, like refusing to ever give up sweets after being diagnosed as diabetic, or duplicitous, like when he promised me he’d joined the health club but hadn’t done so, just to get me off his back. And let me not forget how many times he’d go to the doctor and not report the full extent of how he was feeling, and come home and say, “The doctor says I’m fine.” Until I figured it out and started accompanying him.

But, probably, mostly, it’s because I have lived long enough to realize that optimism is part genetic, part learned. Taking after my mother, I have always considered myself a person for whom the half glass of water is “half empty.” It’s taken me years to learn that the glass also can be seen as “half full.” Yes, Richard and I were both depressed, for which we had plenty of good reasons, but we took turns reminding one another how lucky we were to have been married for over 40 years. When Richard died, after five years of suffering from chronic arthritis in his knees, unable to walk without a walker or go out without a motorized scooter, and after his final five months of being confined to a hospital bed, I wasn’t sure if or how I’d recover. I was exhausted and depressed, and saw my glass as half empty. But then I remembered Richard’s dying wish that I lead a good life, and with the support of close family and friends who have taught me to take each and every day as it comes—ten months later, I find life to be very agreeable. My glass feels half full…and that’s enough.

I try to understand those who say they don’t have the capacity to care for their loved ones at home, or those who think that life after a spouse’s death need be filled with guilt or remorse. That may be true for some, but it wasn’t for Richard and it’s not for me.