Loneliness as part of life
I’m a nonagenarian just shy of a month and I live on my own. I lost my wife, my partner of 57 years, to cancer three years ago. I’m still grieving for her just as much today as I was when she died. If mortality is a part of the human condition, so it seems the grief of the bereaved spouse who was left alone. I’ve never imagined loneliness could be so poignant, uncontrollable and devastating. One afternoon, shortly after her death, I was feeling desperately alone, yearning for her.
Then, impulsively, I bolted out of the house to go to the hospice in Daegu, where she had been bedridden for months until she died. One of my five children was always there alternately to look after her and keep a roundthe-clock vigil at her bedside. I also went there every other day, even as she implored me not to. I sat quietly in the corner of the ward, saying prayers to Gautama Buddha, beseeching for mercy to help her suffer no more and let her rest peacefully, if that was her destiny.
I was going to see my wife again by traveling backwards in time. Although she was not there anymore, I thought I could evoke the memories of her image by looking at her former bed in the hospice. When I got to the hospital two hours later by train, subway and bus, I was overwhelmed to look at the familiar facade of the white building where only terminal patients and their family members are allowed to stay temporarily.
Regretfully, however, I was ruthlessly turned back at the entrance. Later, coming home, I was thinking that I might have looked a little suspicious because of my miserable look and unkempt appearance.
I usually don’t pay much attention to my personal grooming. After my wife passed away, I seem to have less concern about my personal care. I don’t remember when I went to a barbershop last, because I had my own hairdresser who was my wife.
There’re times when I need to find something in her room. But I’m a bit hesitant and cautious to walk in there. I always come across something that recalls emotional memories of her and our past, bringing tears to my eyes. Everything is still there as they were when she had lived there.
On the nightstand by her bed is a framed portrait of my smiling wife in watercolor. It was painted by my art-major daughter years before she fell seriously ill. The caption she wrote in pencil said: “My dear mother who looks prettier than a flower.” Next to it stands a long-necked white flower vase with red and white roses, her favorite flowers. When she was confined to bed at home, I used to fill the vase with fresh flowers, hoping she would feel better by looking at them. Now, the flowers in the vase are artificial ones, still as pretty as fresh flowers.
I have two pet animals in the house, a dog and a cat. They came to us as a puppy and a kitten almost at the same time over two decades ago. I was stunned and saddened when our veterinarian told me recently that they were now over 80 years old in human years.