Playing duets 04 March 10 When Luke was dying I blogged about how marriage is like playing a piano duet, and how glad I was that we had a chance to finish off our duet together, ending gently, together, at the same time. Leaving me to close the piano lid. Since then I've been thinking about this image. We started off so happily, keeping time, remembering the sharps and flats, each one concerned that the other was comfortable on the seat, had enough space, that we weren't encroaching on each other's territory. He played the melody, I supported him with a steady bass. But I got irritated with playing the second part. We bickered about who was too loud, who was slowing down, whose elbows were sticking into whose ribs. All normal stuff among duetists... But then he got sick, and his attention went somewhere else. He couldn't think about the duet at all, because he was fighting for his life (a fight he knew from the beginning that he had lost). And we fought over it. He wanted me to play both parts, and leave him free to fight his cancer. I was willing to try, but I wanted a thank you, some appreciation for holding it all together. I tried and tried until I was exhausted. And resentful. And furious. I think I knew in my gut that he wasn't going to make it, because he withdrew from the duet and focused only on the fight. I think the fighting is not only exhaustion and a normal response to extreme stress. I think for us it was like adolescence. Teenagers become so awful because they're trying to break away and leave home. If they didn't get so horrible to live with, so self absorbed and selfish, parents would never make them leave. It's a process of separating. I think in our guts we both knew he was going to die, and we were separating emotionally by fighting. We had a very intense relationship - all those years in township and rural parishes where we didn't have friends, we relied solely on each other. We both worked from home, so we were together much more than most couples. Luke's social phobia meant that I was the only person he really communicated with intimately (apart from his therapist). If we hadn't separated while he was alive it would have been impossible to let go. Anyway, that's my theory, and I'm sticking to it for today, until I think up another one.

alet on 06 March 10
Helen, you put in words what many of us feel but cannot describe in such an excellent manner

jen on 05 March 10
This is an amazing entry Helen, and Rory what extraordinary generosity you show in writing about your loss ....

Gill on 05 March 10
This made me cry. Hugs.

Rory Williams on 04 March 10
Another observation from a parallel life: For the last week or so of my son's life, he too was concentrating on his own battle, but what we found remarkable up to that time was that he was the one trying to keep everyone else together. He guided his classmates through his illness, giving them as much support as they gave him. He made gentle observations on his parents' behaviour when he thought we needed a steer. And he told us that he wasn't afraid to die - what he was afraid of was how his departure would affect us. He had the outlook of one who knew his time might be coming to an end, hoped that the cup would be taken from him, but reluctantly accepted that he was on a mission. For most of the time he wasn't withdrawn, but as engaged as he possibly could be. Even as his time was running out, he was trying new things. He was learning to weld, researching how to build rockets, trying to get a band going. I think that this was part of how he fought the cancer - by living as fully as he could under the circumstances. What amazed us was how well he knew his own limits. I would get frustrated because at times he didn't seem to be doing what he was "supposed" to do to get better, but eventually it became clear that he knew what was right for him. In some ways, we held him back by not trusting his judgement.

patty on 04 March 10
thank you helen.

isabbel on 04 March 10
xxx

Name
Email address
Comment