A (CON)VERSATION | Janet Greenhut
(Converse intr. v. from Middle English conversen, to associate with, from
Old French converser, from Latin conversari: com + versari, to occupy oneself.)
(Converse adj. from Latin conversus, to turn around. See CONVERT.)
(Verse n. from Latin versus, to turn.)
Uh, ma’am, do you mind if I sit here? All the other benches seem to be taken.
You sure? I don’t want to disturb you or your dog. I mean, I can go to another part of the park. It’s just that I like being by the water.
You too?
Yeah, especially on a day like today. This is my favorite spot to sit. Especially this time of year. Oh, those cherry blossoms. We’re so lucky they come back every year. They make everything look, I don’t know, like, you know, like God really does love us, like it’s the birthday of the world.
Oh, no, no, no. I’m so sorry. I’m not one of those religious freaks who hang out in public to harass people. No, no, not me. Freedom of religion, that’s my thing. Freedom of thought. For everyone.
To be honest, I don’t know why I even mentioned God. I’m an atheist. Have been for most of my life. Don’t believe in heaven or hell, life after death, reincarnation. None of that. Once you’re gone that’s it.
But those cherry blossoms. I love to watch the petals drop off the trees onto the water and float away.
It’s like, it’s almost like—well, I’m not one for metaphors—but it kind of reminds me of the passage of time. Not like a clock, of course. It’s not counting off the seconds. It’s not some abstract thing dictating our lives.
No, it’s right there in front of us. The emergence of beauty and its inevitable demise. Nothing lasts. Certainly not any of us.
My wife died yesterday.
No, no, that’s alright. I’d rather you not say anything. I’m sick of hearing people say I’m sorry for your loss.
I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to criticize you. I never intended to mention my wife’s death. It just kind of escaped my mouth.
I just came here to see the cherry blossoms.
You have a very well-behaved dog, you know. I never really liked dogs. I hate going to someone’s house and before you have a chance to say hello their dog is jumping on you, sometimes nearly knocking you over. And the owner tries to get the dog to settle down, first with a bribe and then with punishment. Of course, nothing works. Finally, they say, oh, he’s never like this, so it must be my fault the dog won’t obey. At that point I say, I’ll come back later. When your dog is dead.
No, of course I’ve never said that. I don’t even know what possessed me to say it now.
Your dog is very well behaved.
Did you know the Japanese have a word for gazing at cherry blossoms?
It’s Hanami. In the spring, people gather under the cherry trees and have picnics, sing, dance, and write poetry. It’s very festive.
Imagine celebrating the impermanence of life.
Yeah, weird, isn’t it? Not to mention un-American.
Oh, you know. Most of us believe that we’re never going to die. Even doctors. Getting a doctor to admit that you’re going to lose your “battle against cancer” is practically impossible. You pretty much have to come to that conclusion on your own. If one drug doesn’t work they seem to always have another one in their back pocket. Until they don’t. And then they tell you that there’s nothing more they can do for you. Off to hospice! You’re lucky if you ever see them again.
Geez, you’re right, maybe it’s better if you don’t. Doctors don’t like to lose patients. They think it looks bad. I’ve even heard them say to each other, “I hope that patient doesn’t die on me.”
Yeah, no kidding. A little empathy wouldn’t hurt, would it.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk about such morbid stuff.
It certainly is a beautiful day. I like seeing all the people out in the park, playing volleyball, having picnics, riding bikes. Usually, though, I’d rather come here when it’s empty. I like how quiet it is at seven in the morning. There are a few runners and a dog walker or two, but it’s so quiet, to me it seems pristine. I like to walk in the woods. Sometimes I even try to get lost so I can find myself in a part of the park I’ve never been before. You wouldn’t believe some of the animals I’ve seen. Wild animals, I mean. People with dogs never get to see them.
There’s a special spot, maybe you’ve been there, where the trees are so tall you have to tilt your head all the way back to see a patch of sky. When I look up, it reminds me what it feels like to be in one of those medieval cathedrals. You know, the ones with the huge stained-glass windows and vaulted ceilings. It makes me feel, I don’t know. It sounds corny, but I feel in awe.
I think it maybe is my cathedral.
I see you have a book. I’ve been keeping you from reading it. I’m so sorry. My wife always told me I talk too much. “Give other people a chance to say something,” she’d say. The thing is, though, she was such a good listener.
Few people are these days.
We used to argue a lot, too. There were few things we saw eye-to-eye on. Our friends often wondered how we ever managed to stay married. I guess you just kind of get used to the way things are. Figure that not much is going to change. It was good enough.
No, it was better than good enough.
I’m sorry. I don’t like to cry in public.
Well, that’s very kind of you.
This is something I’m just going to have to get used to.
I used to tell my wife jokes. I loved to hear her laugh. Even when she thought a joke was corny she would end up laughing. I’m going to miss her laughter.
They say that you eventually forget the voice of the person who died. I can’t imagine forgetting her voice. She used to walk around the apartment singing. Pop songs, show tunes, songs she sang as a kid.
Until she couldn’t sing anymore. Or talk. But I could tell she could still hear me. When I spoke to her, she would look at me intently with her big brown unblinking eyes. By then she couldn’t tell me to stop. I like to think she didn’t want me to stop. Or maybe she was just being polite. Or scared.
I probably should have said less and held her hand more. It’s hard to know what to do. I was scared too. Under those circumstances, reality is hard to face. It’s easier to pretend the worst isn’t going to happen. But when it does, you aren’t really prepared for it. And you wonder if you’ve done everything you could have. I don’t mean more treatments.
More comfort. More communication. She used to complain that I talked a lot but never really said anything. Nothing of consequence, that is.
I should have asked her if this was the way she wanted to die. I think that is what she wanted to tell me when she looked at me. She wanted to say, “Harry, shut up for a minute. There’s something important I want to tell you.” But she couldn’t say it and I was too scared to ask her.
I guess I talked so much so I wouldn’t have to find out what she really wanted to say. If we didn’t say it, it wouldn’t happen.
But it did.
I’m terribly sorry I talked so much about my wife’s death. You’ve been very understanding.
I think I will leave now.
Will I be okay? To be honest, I’m not sure what that means right now.
I feel like taking a walk in the woods, actually. That’s something I always did alone. I want to go the spot where I have to look all the way up to see the tops of the tallest trees that seem to touch the sky. Maybe it will be comforting to feel so small and insignificant.
Then I think I’ll try to find a quiet spot there where I can talk to my wife. And perhaps I’ll listen to what she has to say.
Janet Greenhut is a preventive medicine physician in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She is co-founder of Narrative Dimensions, a nonprofit devoted to promoting the patient's lived experience, and co-creator of the Living Well with Illness workshop, which is based on the philosophy of phenomenology. She is co-author of The Wholeness Handbook: Care of Body, Mind, and Spirit for Optimal Health.