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Meant2Be: ’Til death do (one of us) part

My husband and I have seen a good part of six decades, but the truth is, when we’re alone and aren’t forced to compare the gravity in our faces and the slouch of our bodies with anyone else’s, we’re eternally young.
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September 27, 2016

My husband and I have seen a good part of six decades, but the truth is, when we’re alone and aren’t forced to compare the gravity in our faces and the slouch of our bodies with anyone else’s, we’re eternally young. 

Together, we have a spaciousness — call it an override to reality — that allows us to be all ages. We’re childish, goofy and gay. But we also hear the background of our inner voices that say, “No. You are old!”

When you reach a certain age and love your mate, there’s one looming, unavoidable question: Who’s going to outlive whom? Often, my husband and I debate the best-case scenarios. (There aren’t any.)

If he goes first, I’ll never recover. Of that, I’m sure. And not just because my heart would be broken. 

I know little about our finances, as he has a complicated, hieroglyphic way of organizing accounts. I’d have some money, but I wouldn’t be able to find it. This would make me frustrated. And mad. I’d eventually get back to grieving, but I also wouldn’t be able to buy dog food. 

I couldn’t find anything on TV, either, because operating a TiVo now requires a doctorate in astrophysics. 

Then, there’d be lust. My libido seems to be the last thing to go. But I’d be too old to deal with lust and nobody would lust after me. So I’d be stuck home sobbing with a hungry dog and too much energy below the waist.  

All my old issues of abandonment would resurface if he left me in a lurch, and there’d be regrets. Regrets that we didn’t travel more. That I wasn’t nicer to his mother. That I never took to cooking with real enthusiasm. That I didn’t watch football with him. 

I’d be mad that he often didn’t accept the tub full of spirulina laced with super foods I proffered every day. Then I’d be right back to anger at myself that I didn’t force them on him. 

I’d bemoan that I got so agitated when his hearing decreased. He couldn’t make out what I said (or wouldn’t; I’ll never know). That I made him sell his race horses. Or that I didn’t make him sell them sooner. 

That I’d left the marital bed because of cacophonous snoring. That I asked him to do the dishes. (Wait. Asking him to do the dishes will hold.) That I’d teased him when he leapt up with insane excitement because someone who was paid millions to hit a homer, hit a homer.

I’d miss that he accepted me unconditionally as no one in my life had ever done. That we healed deep wounds because of our enduring friendship and love. That he’d come with me to couples counseling, that he’d traveled to India, although he was in no way a Third World kind of dude. 

I’d miss his soft skin that spoke volumes to mine. That he was as sturdy as an old oak tree, in contrast to my falling leaves personality. That his heart was golden, and that when he smiled, my body relaxed as if I’d spent the day in a Balinese spa.  

But I don’t want to think about any of this anymore. To avoid this scenario, I ply my mate with vitamins, get him out walking, send him to the doctor and howl if I discover a McDonald’s wrapper in his car. 

His assurances about his commitment to longevity have been tepid at best. Our golden retriever died at 14. When she was 10, my husband told me he’d stick around as long as the dog did. That made me have to take assiduous care of the dog, to the point of becoming her private nurse. 

My husband earnestly made me promise to shoot him if he got Alzheimer’s. I’m not good with guns, so, God forbid he becomes demented. I’d have to buy a gun and frequent the shooting range. And then, I couldn’t shoot him anyway. I’d just sit around hoping, waiting to see his goofy, gap-tooth smile flash one more time.

The plain, selfish truth is I want him to outlive me, even though I know that he’ll fall to pieces without me — or at least will not eat organic. I realize I have no control, so I tell myself to ‘let go’ and ‘let God.’ 

But then, I end up trying to convince Him: “Hey, Big Guy, I know you love my man, but, c’mon, you don’t need him like I do.”

This column is part of our new series, Meant2Be, stories of love and relationships. Do you have a story about dating, marriage, singlehood or any important relationship in your life? Email us at meant2be@jewishjournal.com.


Barbara Bottner has written for television and is the author of more than 45 books for children (some she illustrated). Her short stories have been published in national magazines, and her essays and features have appeared in LA Weekly and the Miami Herald.

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