My Dark Nights

She's been gone for over three years now, but as the occasion of Dori's forty eighth birthday draws near, I find myself lost in reveries of her. In the dark of the night those memories of our blissful moments together steal over me and I find myself lost in what was and what could have been.

I will not pretend to tell you that our time together was perfect bliss. We had our share of difficulties, and I am sure that, as all who have lost dear ones do, I have built a shrine to her in my memory, exaggerating the good times and minimizing the bad. Such is the nature of our memories, I'm sure. There are those who tried to tell me then, and still tell me today, that two so deeply troubled people had no business being together, and perhaps that was true, but I think not. We were both persons of deep passions, passions which often conlicted with one another. What is true, though, is that we fumbled through our relationship. We were two deeply flawed people looking for a way around the hurts we had suffered previously. The solutions we chose were not always the healthiest soultions, the places we sought solace were not the safest refuges. Unfortunately, our end came just as we started to find our way out of our flawed decisions.

Oddly enough, it was her illness that united us at last. There is something cathartic in suffering, something healing, not only for the one who suffers, but for those who love the sufferer, as I love Dori. There is something is witnessing the suffering of another, especially up close and personal, that calls upon the "better angels of our nature", I think. Suffering calls us to not only work for the benefit of the sufferer, for the alleviation of the suffering, but it calls us to share the pain, to unite ourselves to one another through that shared experience. The suffering itself becomes a bond between us. I witnessed the healing effects not only between Dori and I, but between her and others. I saw some the ties of some friendships strengthened; I saw family bonds strained by dysfunction restored.

Dying, it has been said, focusses the mind wonderfully. I think that's true. Living in the present takes sudden priority over the hurts of the past and the fears of the future that those of us who will go on living have difficulty grasping. Suddenly, one realizes that, as Richard John Neuhaus put it, that "the work of dying well is, in largest part, the act of living well." Dori knew she was dying well before I did; I don't think I ever quite grasped the fact until she did, in fact, die. She did what she could to prepare, still, I think the end surprised her.

This time of year the late winter sunshine streams through the windows in the late afternoon, much as it did in the little house we shared together. It illuminates the corner of the couch which was her favorite napping spot. I'd often walk into the living room to find her dozing there and when she stirred and opened her eyes to see me she'd burst into a radiant smile. It melted my heart every time I saw it. Even when I was angry or cross with her, I never could be for long when confronted by that smile. How I miss that. I'd trade everything I have to see it just once more. She always loved me better than I loved her.

I miss you, baby and I think of you every day.

Til we meet again, my darling, all the best. Joe