Birds and Bees, Life and Death

Birds and Bees

Public school sex education was a handout with black and white illustrations and clinical conversations about body parts at a time when I had no idea why anyone wanted to get naked together, not to mention touch each other.

In time, I’d develop crushes on boys and Hollywood stars, but I was in no way prepared for the onslaught of my own desire. Gushing hormones would be my demise. I would become preoccupied with sex and men. I fantasized about it with them and manipulated people, places and things accordingly. It was nothing less than obsession and I hadn’t the slightest idea what I was doing.

At first, falling in love with Thorne was heaven on earth. Our relationship blossomed and we became intimate. Then my body took over. From auto-pilot to hyperdrive, I left my mind, friends, family and eleventh-grade life behind at lightspeed. When the relationship came apart at the seams, with all the toxic behavior and adolescent drama, I staged a half-hearted suicide. When that failed, I decided to take off for the summer and consequently joined up with a commune in Vermont.

It was not a true decision, I simply ran and relied on chance. Everything that happened from late July through August did so as cause and effect, over and over. The path was thoughtless… careless… textbook examples of irresponsible behavior. It amazes me that I lived through the summer.

I did return for my senior year in high school. It appeared as though I’d settled down, but I had not faced my obsession and pernicious behavior and would not acknowledge them for years to come. I otherwise appeased my parents and agreed to therapy. Mind you, I have nothing against the concept of therapy, and I would develop my own techniques given the hours and hours I spent with a professional psychologist, but the process at the time fed my obsessions and gave me license to talk about myself in the pretense of progress.

Boys and Girl

Thorne was paradise compared to every relationship that followed. There were twelve years of Natt, five years of Roy, two years of Tom, relationships without prospects, lackluster attempts at the time being. In my mid-thirties, I gave up dating all together, which simply created a millpond of desire that led up to meeting my once-and-future-husband.

I can say this now, on the other side of menopause: sex is over rated. When I met Harry, however, I was in no more control of my ego or id. It was serendipity that ultimately took control.

Man and Woman

Harry was a bad boy, a profile that attracted me to men. He drove fast, drank deeply and could not control his emotions. But Harry was a worthy challenge. He was a creative genius, worked hard at whatever he did and fiercely protected me. And, unlike any other man in my life, Harry uncovered inherent strengths I hadn’t myself professed.

Husband and Wife

Unfortunately, our first year of marriage was no honeymoon. I was forty. Mom was seventy-five. Dad was eighty. My sister, Joan, was married and living in South Carolina with two teenage children. Harry was working a construction site in Pelham with long, hard hours. We had no sooner eloped than were dealing with my mother’s sudden death, my heartbroken father following suit and a work accident for Harry that took our lives further down a rabbit hole. Within four months, we’d bury both my parents, execute their last will and testament, sell their home, and take off for Seattle, Washington.

The plan was for Harry’s two brothers to move soon after and settle down to life in the Pacific Northwest. In 1996, Harry and I had bought a mobile home in Snohomish on a horse’s acre of property. Soon after, Bob and his wife Marsha rented a small home on Whidbey Island while they broke ground and began building a home on the piece of property they owned together with the third brother, Kenny.

Kenny, with his wife Flo, never made the move out west. The reason they didn’t was never apparent, other than they’d decided to move south instead of west. As a result, ill will and a growing distrust over who-said-what-to-whom distanced the three brothers.

Harry was one of five brothers and five sisters. The family of ten ranged in ages so that Patricia, the eldest sister, had a daughter that was older than the youngest sister, Madeline. Harry was the youngest boy. Their father worked to keep food on the table for all those kids and the eldest boy, John, was Harry’s surrogate dad. When I met Harry, he was living with John in a small house in Lindenhurst, NY. When Harry and I left for Washington, Harry and John remained in close touch, sending each other videos and letters.

Most boys play ball with their father and brothers. Harry would fish, build things and fix engines. Any day of the week it was normal to find the boys working on boats or cars, straightening up the garage, operating lifts with heavy chains, handling every sort of power tool imaginable. Every weekend without fail, they’d rise early and go fishing on the Great South Bay. Harry told me that his dad would sometimes drag his sleepy head fishing before school started. His dad was strict and the fish they would catch would be for supper. It wasn’t sporting, it was survival in earnest.

I grew up in a small, sustainable family. Harry’s Episcopal, western-European roots were polar opposite to my Jewish, eastern-European ancestry. My family holidays were somber in contrast to his lively. For his family, any day was a reason to gather. There were long drives to the Pocono’s, boat rides to Fire Island, camping, hunting, birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, all with an assembly of brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, nieces, nephews, daughters, sons, grandchildren, friends and dogs.

There were hug-feasts and good-cries. But there were also arguments and fist fights. Eventual melodrama at every get together, sponsored by copious amounts of beer, wine and liquor.

We spent five years in Washington, moving three times. From Snohomish to Mount Index to Mount Vernon. I had a decent job in publishing and we were able to make ends meet, thanks to additional bits and pieces of my folk’s inheritance. Although the Puget Sound was breathtaking, the mountains drop-dead gorgeous, the summers dry and temperate, the gray-dome over western Washington depressed Harry to no-end, and he’d give way to homesickness.

One morning, shouting over the morning weather report — “rain with sunbreaks” or perhaps it was “sunbreaks with rain” — Harry announced, “Pack your bags. We’re selling the house and moving back to New York.”

In 2000, we bought a house in Lindenhurst, not far from his brother John. Harry was on-again-off-again with brother’s and sisters, but we’d otherwise made fast friends in the neighborhood.

I was forty-five. Although we’d tried, Harry and I did not have children. I was at menopause junction and a lot more than the landscape was changing.

Harry’s previous accident at work developed into chronic back pain and a degenerative condition. He’d had surgery in Washington and his back was fused. Out west, I was the bread-winner, but that was clearly not going to cut it in New York. Harry would have to find work. In the meantime, he spent most of his time fishing and my fried fish dinners developed into a fine art.

On the morning of September 11th, I was standing in front of the television waiting for the weather report. I worked not far from the house, so I would leave at ten-to-the-hour. It was 8:46 when the first tower was hit and the weather report preempted. I shouted for Harry, who was outside with our neighbor Joe, more-or-less a single father. They were getting ready to go fishing. The three of us stood in front of the television watching the world-as-we-know-it end. Joe’s kids were let out of school early and soon my house was a mix-match of 3 elementary-school-aged girls, one rottweiler, 2 grown men, and one woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I cried that day, like the motherless child I was. And I unhinged a little bit every day after that. I couldn’t find a reason to cook, clean, work, shop, not to mention entertain. Regardless of Harry’s masculinity, I wasn’t safe. The sky was falling.

My desperation scared the bejesus out of Harry. He cleared a wide path around me. The alternative for me was to seek out professional help on my own. My family physician prescribed Zoloft and recommended a therapist.

For a year, I popped a pill every day and talked my heart out every week. Unbeknownst to me, my body had yielded to time and I was in the eye of menopause. The medical impact of Zoloft camouflaged pleasure, pain and mid-life crisis. I felt less and less about more and more and flatlined. I became rational, intentional and deliberate.

I needed to stop taking the Zoloft. And in time, I would have enough with the weekly sessions. Memory mining my folks, my sister, my past, my present, my future, my hopes, my fears. At the end of each hour, it was the same. “We’ll pick up next week. I want you to think more about why you fill-in-the-blank.” The conversations were repeats of repeats. I needed to stop talking about obsession and start breaking bad habits. Thankfully, parting words with my therapist were courteous. In comparison to the conversation with my physician. When I suggested I wean myself off Zoloft, “Emphatically, no,” and “I’ll tell you when you are ready,” were his bottom line. But, I was ready. And as my mother found out ages ago, the surest way to get me to do something was to say “No” without discussion.

I Googled everything about Zoloft and planned out my exit strategy. I expected vertigo but I didn’t expect night sweats and a dead-on-arrival libido. The night sweats would last ten years. The libido never returned.

Harry and I continued to love, honor and obey each other without abandon. And although I cared more than ever, I was a gray alien and he was lost in space. He made the mistake of suggesting I go on hormone therapy only to receive a whiplash of spousal verbal abuse. He’d avoid that topic in the future.

Post menopause, I became amiable. I enjoyed my life filled with gardening, dog walking and technology, but as Harry aged, he’d need to discover on his own how to lighten his load in order to survive. Harry’s second career after his accident was as physical as his construction job, just in different ways. He discovered that he needed to flex mental muscle to solve problems when brute strength failed. He became a CDL truck driver and eventually a successful machinist and truck mechanic.

Life and Death

Harry’s change of life was insidious. One day, he admitted to shoulder pains and we got him to the doctor. The next day, his x-rays resulted in a whirlwind of checkups. And there it was. Cancer. Within a week of diagnosis, he lost his voice. The small-cell cancer was entwining around his larynx, growing from the top of his lung.

We barely comprehend the millions of motions our bodies take part in. And there we were, blind-sighted by facts, in a screeching halt that chucked us to the other side of midnight.

The chemo and radiation treatments held the cancer at bay for a year, but it recurred in his liver and became the perfect storm. His liver ablation, scheduled for late March in 2020, was almost canceled as the hospitals filled with COVID-19 patients. After the surgery, treated like an outpatient, he rested at home. Along with the cancer that was eating away at his resolve, the news, politics and hysteria from the pandemic pillaged and plundered.

I began preparing myself. I started with gratitude, taking inventory of everything we had together. I suggested he reconnect with family and friends. I imagined my life alone. We made an appointment with our lawyer and drew up a will.

I was stone cold sober since the day Harry was diagnosed. I embraced reality with a passion equal to the hope and faith I discovered, to the benefit of my years in therapy. Harry confessed, “You’re my rock. You’re taking care of everything. I don’t know how you do it. I love you for that. But, I’m sorry…I’m not gonna make it. You’ll need to sell the house. Maybe move in with your sister.”

I’d reply, crossing my eyes and shaking my head, “Shut up! You’re a survivor. Don’t give up!” Absolutely frozen with fear.

I could not always find the perfect words to comfort him. So, we shared hugs and kisses. Nostalgic movie moments. Awesome grilled cheese sandwiches. Although his appetite waned, whatever he wanted was on the menu. Cheese cake. Hot dogs. Crusty baked cauliflower. Homemade beef barley soup with hot buttery crescent rolls. Apple pie with whipped cream.

Meanwhile, Harry would go to work without fail. He’d take time off here and there to receive his treatments and then return to work the very next day. The job switched up his hours so that, being immuno-compromised, Harry could work a later shift and avoid contact with other people. His supervisors loved him. They ran a raffle and he won. Wink-wink. A huge, flatscreen TV!

The world continued to panic around the pandemic and argue about the vaccine. Harry wanted the shot with all his heart and soul. I spent every free moment trying to squeeze an appointment out of the internet and finally prevailed. His first Pfizer shot was in April, and he took it well. Complained about a sore arm but stood tall. On a sunny Sunday in May, while undergoing staged immuno-therapy, Harry returned for his second booster.

I insisted he stay home from work the next day. He was tired and chilly and achy. I stood by, feeding his face, comforting him with blankets, taking his temperature, happy to find it was normal.

The next day there was no stopping him, and he went to work. And I thought, “Can’t keep a good man down.”

“I’m so tired,” he said when he came home that afternoon. Onto the couch, with the remote in his hand, he slept only waking for food.

Men love their remotes almost as much as they love their couches, and I discovered early on in married life that it’s totally illogical to wake a man who has fallen asleep on the couch to tell him to get up and go to bed. That conversation goes nowhere.

That night I left him sleeping on the couch, as I had many times. He looked so comfortable sleeping in front of the TV he’d won in a make-believe raffle. I didn’t have it in my heart to wake him up. Instead, I slipped off to the bedroom and in time fell asleep myself, propped up in bed, reading my Kindle in the dark. It was 12:30 in the morning when I woke up, stiff from sitting, and discovered he hadn’t come to bed.

I took off my glasses and switched on the night light. I noticed the time as I walked to the living room. I also noticed Harry stretched half across the couch and the floor. I couldn’t help but think, “It’s happened. It’s over.”

In the very same moment, “Harry, wake up!” I touched his cheek and realized he was ice cold. I tried to lift him back onto the couch but he was too heavy. I rested him on the floor. I put my face to his face, to feel, smell or hear his breath. I instinctively crossed his arms onto his body. I covered him with his favorite blanket. I called 9-1-1.

My entire life merged into a pinpoint in time. Like clay on a pottery wheel, serendipity had crafted me, every spin molding me perfectly for this singular moment.

I reported to the police. I recalled for the medical officer. I telephoned my sister, Harry’s nephew, and his boss. It was a long night, a lonely morning, and the first day of the rest of my life without Harry.