10/19/19 - Almost from the moment she died, I have had thoughts of regrets - things I did or said over the years, or, more frequently, things I wish we had said or done that we did not. These continue to haunt me, and while rationality says that regrets accomplish nothing, they persist nevertheless. I have decided that perhaps confronting them in writing might be a path to putting them to rest. By her nature, Penny kept her vulnerable side well protected. She did not show hurt or disappointment, so on the very rare occasion when she did, I knew it was from a very deep cut. Last Christmas, Penny had purchased tickets for all of us to do the special after-dark walk-through of the Fantasy of Lights at Vasona Park, usually a drive-through event. It was quite a production, driving to the remote parking, waiting for the bus, loading and unloading Lincoln's stroller, then the couple of mile walk through the park looking at the lights, then the reverse trek to the car and home. Somewhere near the end of the experience, probably at our 20-minute wait for the return bus ride, I said something to the effect that I was glad we "wouldn't have to do this again". I felt bad the minute I said it, but she showed little reaction. Later that evening, sitting near her in the family room, I looked over to see tears running down her cheek. When pressed, she told me how badly those words had hurt her, how excited she had been about the event for her family. I was crushed. I pled with her to believe me that I had had a really nice time, and that I really was looking forward to doing it again next year, but we would do a different plan than the remote-parking-bus-ride part. Over the following few months, I relished the opportunity next Christmas to make good on my promise. I will now never have that chance. And it still hurts to me to the core to remember that image of her quietly pretending to read a magazine while tears streamed down her face because of what I had said.
I have many more regrets as well. I deeply regret that we did not spend time talking about my life after her death. We knew it was coming, we had more than three months of spending nearly every hour together. We had many chemo sessions with me sitting just two feet away for a stretch of five or more hours...but the topic almost never came up. I don't really know why. We were both very realistic about her time being limited, but perhaps she saw talking about "after" as a sign of surrender. And I did not want to be the one to initiate a conversation in that direction. I am positive that each of us thought the same thing: there will be time later, before the end comes, when we know it is imminent. Somehow, we thought, there will be this moment down the road when we, fully coherent and comfortable, sit down for a comprehensive discussion of how I will go on. How to manage the house, what to do with her jewelry and clothes, things she wants me to tell the grandchildren, how to care for her garden and plants, how to keep her memory alive. And then it was too late. Instead of an organized bullet point discussion of things I should know, the last days called for tenderness, gentleness and love, talking about warm memories of our life together, how we met, what she accomplished. And then she was gone, leaving me alone and adrift. But despite the way it ended, I have one more very deep regret: I did not tell her often enough how much I loved her, how she had completed me in a way I never could have imagined, how proud I had been of all she accomplished, how amazed I was that a woman who came from a difficult childhood could become such a wonderful mother. I believe she knew all of these things, but I regret so much that I could not say them again...and again and again. I wanted the last thought she ever had in this life to be the knowledge that she had meant so much, done so much, for so many people....that she would live on in the love and beauty that she left behind. But the moment her breathing stopped I knew it was too late. And I regret that so much.
But for one thing I am forever thankful. I have read many accounts of the end of life that cancer brings about, attached to tubes and devices, in the clinical setting of the hospital, filled with prolonged pain for the sufferer and the caregivers. Penny told me many times that she was not afraid, but that she wanted to be at home when she died, and that it would not be prolonged. She got her wish.
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