Monday, March 9, 2015

Tender Touch


I awakened last night, and reached for my husband in the dark, only to find that now familiar, empty space, instead. And I remembered how I would drape my leg over his, at night, and press my stomach against his back. Sometimes, he would stir, slightly, and tell me to take my leg off of him. He said my legs were too heavy. He referred to them as tree trunks. And I'd tell him that his legs were like twigs.

 When we first met, he delighted in my body, and I, in his. We knew each other so well, every curve and spot. We were not young, and we sagged and puffed with age, a bit, but that didn't seem to matter, much. We fit together. He used to tell me that he loved my body. No one had ever said that to me, or made me believe it.

There is something so beautiful about sharing intimate touch. There is no replacement for it. Hugs from friends help, but it is not the same. It is bigger than sex (although we had that, too, and it was great). It is being seen, and felt, and known, and accepted--every part. It is the intertwining of two worlds. It is knowing each other's rhythms and ways. It is a softening, a melding. It is the weaving of two lives into one.

At night, we would lie next to each other, in our bed, and talk. We'd share painful memories, our fears and worries. We'd resolve conflicts, settle differences, say the things that might be too hard to express, in the light of day. He'd hear me crying, reach for my cheek, brush the tears away with his soft fingertips. He'd pull me close and stroke my hair.

These are the moments I ache for.

These are the times that feel most desolate:  when I awaken in the night, and find him missing; in the morning, when I rise, without the sound of his breathing next to me--the room silent, and bereft.

I fill these restless moments, that stretch into late night hours, with information and internet. On the worst nights, I watch murder mysteries on the telly. On better nights, I listen to a dharma talk. But always I must drown the quiet, and chase away the memories. The emptiness and silence are just too much to bear.

The night before he died, Stan lay upon the sofa, and I sat next to him, pulled his legs onto my lap, and rubbed his aching calves. His calves were always hard, and painful to the touch. I stroked them softly, as we watched silly shows on TV. His youngest son was here, with us. Stan was quiet and pensive, as if in a bubble of his own.

I crept up the stairs, before him, and when he came to bed, he turned his back to me, and I let him be. His son had died, two weeks before, and we were headed to the funeral the following day. I didn't know how to reach my husband. I thought he wanted space.

Oh! How I wish I had wrapped my arms around him, and pressed myself into his back. How I wish I had whispered in his ear that I would be there for him, no matter what, that we would get through this together, that I would be, always, at his side.

But I didn't. I kissed his cheek, told him goodnight, and turned my back to his.

In the morning, I brought him his tea.  I scrubbed his back, in the bath, laid out his funeral suit, wiped the dust from his good shoes. I helped him dress. Straightened his tie.

I held his hand at the funeral, and put my arm around his shoulder, after he had read the tribute to his son.

I held his hand tightly in mine as we walked out the door of the chapel. Felt it slip from my grasp as he crumbled to the ground.

The 9th of June, 2014. Exactly 9 months ago, today.

Our final, tender touch.



18 comments:

  1. Your post made me cry. You captured so beautifully what I miss the most about my husband. Thank you for your writing each week. I feel that it is a privilege to see into your world. You express what I cannot always articulate for myself. Sending hugs and love to you. Carrie

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    1. Dear Carrie,
      Thank you for your kind words. This one made me cry, too! It is the little things, like being touched, that we don't talk about, that magnifies our loss, and that others don't understand. I am glad that my writings resonate with you.

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  2. Tricia, I have tears rolling down my cheeks at this moment. My husband died unexpectedly of a heart attack in his sleep next to me in the middle of the night. We normally would kiss each other before going to sleep and say "I love you." That night we didn't kiss each other goodnight. I will never get over not having a last kiss and no last, "I Love You." I adored him and we were soul mates. I keep asking myself, "why, oh why, did I just go to sleep that night without our nightly kiss?"

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    1. I, like you, have tortured myself with the memory of that night. Why didn't I comfort him? Why didn't I reach for him, though he couldn't reach out to me? We thought we had more time. Those moments were just another moment. Until we don't have those moments, ever again. I hope you can forgive yourself. We are only human. They knew we loved them. xx

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    2. Tricia, thank you so much for your caring response. Yes, your Stan and my Rich knew and still know that we love them. I'm sending you a big hug. Karen

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  3. oh, Tricia, you knew Stan so well and I am sure you read him very well and gave him the space he needed. I hope so much that with time you can come to a place of peace and believe that. I so understand the longing, that deep ache of loss of touch so special and intimate that is such a horrendous void. I miss, oh, how I miss holding hands with Hugh, those sweet kisses and warm hugs, or when we held one anothers' faces and looked into each others eyes to say, "I love you". even driving in the car, a hand placed on the thigh of whichever of us was driving - we were always touching, so tenderly, so lovingly. I miss...I miss that part of our US-ness so much. thank you for this beautifully written post about the awful collateral loss that no one can replace.

    much love and virtual hugs to you,

    karen

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    1. Thanks, Karen. We used to touch a lot, too. He was very affectionate. I miss that so much. I keep trying to forgive myself for what I could not possibly have known. He knew that I loved him, and I have to hang onto that.

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  4. I will never be able to accept how my husband died and that he died. I am going into my third year and I am having times again like I had in the first months. This is excruciating. Im not sure how I am going to do it except that I still live the day through.

    I come and read in case something said helps me. Just hearing what others feel is valuable. Keeps me trying.

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    1. I am glad that you come here for understanding and support. It is truly excruciating. I am glad you keep trying.

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  5. I get this, Tricia. Those small moments, those little things we treasured and miss so deeply. I will never forget that last night Mike was with me, how he leaned down to kiss me goodnight as I remained on the couch on my computer for a couple more hours...never knowing it would be the last time I'd see him alive...and dealing with the heavy regret that his snoring and bear-like nocturnal habits made it difficult to share a bed with him at all, and so for the most part, we slept apart...before, I preferred to sleep alone but now, I hate it. I wish I had one more night to spend with him, sleeping next to him, listening to him snore and reveling in it.

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    1. Those regrets are so powerful, aren't they? It is the small things, a touch of the hand, that we miss, isn't it. I don't sleep well alone. Even with him, I was up and down at night. We had talked about eventually sleeping separately, because I was mindful that my restlessness disturbed him. But we kept trying to make it work. We liked waking up next to each other. I miss that.

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  6. While I miss everything about my husband, I think I miss his touch the most. No matter how stressful my day might have been, when I walked in the door & was enveloped in his hug -- the outside world melted away and I was at peace. I have not felt that feeling of contented bliss since he passed. What I wouldn't give for one more hug! Thank you for this posting. Sincerely, Jane

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    1. Yes. That touch. People don't realise how vital that is, and how empty it is, without it. One more hug. Thanks for your response, Jane.

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  7. So eloquently said, Tricia. I treasure you as a model for carrying on in the face of such loss as you have experienced. I loved reading this, felt how grounded you are, how it must be diffcult to remember and express as you do. Yet, we know writing is a healer of many things. And for that, you have an admirable gift, my friend.

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    1. Thank you, Debra. This writing is not always easy, but these thoughts are swirling around in my head, anyway, so it is good to get them on the page. Miss you too. xx

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  8. Eloquently shared, Tricia. The importance of physical contact in a relationship, especially the ordinary contact of daily life. When it's gone, we realize how much we missed the touch on the shoulder, the kiss on the head, the physical words of love and comfort. It's perhaps the greatest part we miss.

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  9. This is so true and no one, even those suffering from the loss too can understand what that touch meant. Those tender moments only two, who deeply loved, can share. The nights trying to fall asleep alone, hugging his pillow or jacket and waking up to the deafening silence are something other people that haven't experienced this can understand

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  10. Oh Tricia. Oh Tricia. I remember inhaling and smelling my husband as he lay dying in a hospital bed. At that point he could not touch me back, but I wanted to remember that smell and the softness of his skin forever. Just a few days, he reached out as I walked by his hospital bed and patted me on the bottom. We knew how important it was to touch, and as you say, that intimate touch of lovers can't be replaced by friends or family. Sigh...

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