I was a scarred 28-year old, already divorced and suffering deeply from a botched affair with an unavailable man. I was a young woman struggling to find her way after being misguided by the Southern Baptist Church for most of her life.
One evening, living in Dallas, I attended a chamber music concert where a pianist friend was performing. Backstage after the concert she introduced me to the ‘cellist, who would end up being my husband for at least the next 41 years. We barely said hello, good to meet you, etc, but it was the seed.
A few weeks later we met again at a masquerade party. He and his date were dressed as Raggedy Ann and Andy (they looked really cute) and I was a black cat with a long tail. We chatted a bit and a few days later he called to ask me to go to the opera (Der Rosenkavalier). A sweet kiss in the parking lot afterwards sealed the deal.
That’s how it all began. Bill was gleeful to have this younger woman on his arm and I was relieved to be involved with an older, settled man. We shared a deep love for performing and listening to classical music and that was enough. However, we were somewhat blind to the difficulties our age difference of 21 years would bring. Vocabulary, popular music, social circles, desire for children, life experiences and more, much more. But we persevere and here we are now at 91 and 69.
Early on in our relationship we often felt that strangers were “staring” at us and frequently we were mistaken for father and daughter. And then there was a long period of time that I call “middle marriage” when things just seemed normal, like any other couple. We were working, raising a daughter, making music together, socializing with friends.
About 10 years ago that sense of normalcy began to change. More and more things began to sit on my shoulders-our finances, Bill’s medical appointments, his schedule, our travel and social engagements. I do everything that requires a computer and am the one to figure out the TV, our sound system, the radio in the car. Several times a day Bill forgets what I told him a few minutes before and I find myself explaining and repeating over and over. I grieve this change and it frightens me. Once again we are often mistaken for a father and daughter- Bill gloats and I cringe.
It is rare, I think, when a woman wants to be like her mother. My mother gave up everything to care for my father in his later years, physically straining herself, begging doctors for answers, trying to keep him alive even when it was time to go. I don’t want to be that woman, yet here I am: advocating for Bill in a doctor’s office, reminding him about medications, insisting on his daily walk, being a shrew. I look in the mirror and guess who I see?
At a recent physical Bill got excellent results for a 91 year-old man. We are lucky and I am grateful-I don’t want to lose my husband. But most likely he will die before me and in the time we have left I must somehow acknowledge and accept that our relationship has changed to include myself as caregiver. I’m not sure I know how to do that. I pray for wisdom.
