Sometimes in life there are true love stories. This is one of them.
My mother is a strong woman who has had a tough life. When she was 18, her mother, father and oldest sister all died in the space three years. Polio killed her sister, and heart attacks took the other two. Sometimes, when I get down on my mom, as we all are wont to do from time to time, I think how amazing it is that she keeps it together at all. But she does.
After graduating from Smith College, tough times continued for her; her marriage to my father wasn’t a happy one for either of them, and eventually it led to separation and divorce. I remember spending much of my childhood trying to make my mom happy. She was so much fun to be with when she was happy, but even when outwardly cheerful, one could sense her sadness.
Then, about ten years ago, my mother started to become close to John and Bettie McDonald. They were a loving couple with a wonderful marriage, and they could sense the dark cloud about my mother. In a remarkable few months, they adopted her and took her under the protective umbrella of their grace, love and good humor. The three of them became nearly inseparable.
My two sisters and I soon saw the transformation in my mother as the McDonalds opened to her a world of theater, art, gourmet food and friendship. Being a little naive, we thought that my mother had fallen in love with John, but the truth is that she fell in love with them both.
Two years of deep friendship ensued, but it was marred when Bettie suddenly got profoundly sick. The doctors never really found what ailed her, but with remarkably good humor, she endured test after test, emergency room after emergency room until, after three long years, she passed away. She was a selfless woman who genuinely cared more about the people she loved than about herself. John, his children and my mom all were heartbroken.
They say that those who have great marriages often remarry soon after a spouse dies because they know how good it can be. My sisters and I were ecstatic when, a little more than a year after Bettie died, John married my mom. He decided to spoil her; they went traveling, they went to the theater and fine restaurants, and acted like schoolchildren around each other.
I loved John from the start. His face was wildly expressive and, more often than not, his eyebrows were raised in merriment above his blue eyes, and his mouth was open in an infectiously wide smile. His joy in life’s throwaway moments made people love being with him. He took particular delight in actors, for he relished talent and admired those who took chances with their lives.
One of the really fun things about playing squash is being able to show off for people you love and who love you in return. For me, every time my mother, my father or my sisters have watched me play, I have played better knowing they were there.
And once I saw John’s reaction to actors, the theater, and movies, I relished the thought of him watching me play, too. We planned for him to come a few times, but my squash injuries and his bad hip kept putting it off.
In September of last year, John finally decided to have hip replacement surgery. He had been frustrated by not being able get around more effectively, and he wanted to be able to continue to travel and take long walks with my mom.
While undergoing an exam prior to the procedure, a lump in his neck was found and by the time his hip was replaced, it was determined that the lump was cancer. Thus began a strange time of contrasting moods; John's hip surgery had gone so well – and he was walking so soon after the operation – that John was as upbeat as ever. But there also was an undercurrent of tension as the worry of his cancer began to sink in.
We spent a glorious Christmas with him and his daughter's family, and – for a time – things seemed almost optimistic. But soon after the new year, he was not feeling well and he entered the hospital for what turned out to be the last time. The doctors thought that he had about six months to live, but John had other plans.
John remembered Bettie’s drawn-out illness, and he told my mom that because he knew what it was like to live a happy life, he wanted to leave while still appreciating its sweetness. Two mornings later, he slipped into a coma, waited until his children were at his side a few hours later, and died. I think it was exactly how he planned it.
Earlier that morning when my mom got to his room, she was surprised to see John in bed wearing a Walkman. One of his doctors, so moved by his dignity and charm, remembered that he had said that he wanted to die with his family at his side and with music playing in the background. After John slipped into the coma, the doctor went home, got her Walkman, and put it on John so that he could hear classical music until his family got there. John made people better just by knowing him.
John never got to see me play squash, or perhaps what I really mean is that I never got to have him see me play squash. But now I will imagine the face of the man who brought my mother a decade of joy, as he finally sees me play. I will imagine him sharing the moment with my mother as they look at each other and laugh after a good shot. I will imagine a face full of delight. And I will continue to miss him.
