Relationship Through Time: A True Story

I spent half an hour with Charles—Freda's husband—this morning. He's dying.

Last night, Freda had said to me, “If you want to see a very nice person one more time, come soon. Tomorrow.” So I went to see Charles this morning. I brought Freda and Charles a bouquet of colorful flowers. Today is their last Valentine's. They got married 10 years ago, and they both agree that this was their best marriage. Also the best 10 years of their lives.

Freda chose a red carnation and pinned it to Charles' freshly ironed shirt. She chose another one, and pinned it to her blouse. Charles looked elegantly color-coordinated, in his nice shirt and slacks, his red suspenders and red socks. The red carnation looked good on him, too. “Dressed for the occasion,” I thought. His elegant clothes contrasted with his extreme thinness. He could hardly talk, but the wise, loving look in his eyes communicated all that I needed to know. I sat by him and held his hand. He spoke to me in a serene voice.

“I wish I'd had a chance to get to know you better.”
“So do I.”
“I want to ask you something,” he continued. “What do you wish to accomplish in the next ten or fifteen years?”
Tears instantly flooded my eyes. I swallowed. “I want to learn how to live and love well,” I responded.
He nodded. Then I heard myself add, “I have pursued higher education and I am now working towards another degree, but none of that really matters. I have to spend my time some way or another. But the only thing that matters to me is my connections with people. Love.”
“You are very wise,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I don't know if I've been wise or not...,” he mumbled.

I felt the beauty of his presence, his words. Wise or not, we shared a magical moment that I would remember for a long time. Every second was precious. Time stopped. I was there and nowhere else. Hearing everything, seeing everything, feeling everything.

“My first marriage lasted seven years,” he went on. “My second one lasted thirty-five. And then, I met Freda. The age difference was big, and I told her that she would only have about seven years with me. She married me anyway.
“At the beginning, our minds separated us. She asked me, 'Tell me how you think,' but I didn't understand her question. I had never thought of such things.”

More silence. I did not feel my usual need to speak. The sacredness of the moment taught me that many words were not necessary. Charles spoke again.

“Do you think there is something after life?”
“I was raised Catholic,” I explained, “and was taught about heaven and hell. But I don't believe in that. What comes to me is that the soul lives, always. Also before and after 'death,' perhaps. It's a loving energy for which death does not exist. Sometimes people's souls seem 'dead' while their bodies are alive.” I could feel the vibrant life in Charles' soul.

There was a knock at the door. Charles' ride to the hospice was there. He was going to the hospital to “die.”

While Freda was making some last-minute preparations, I was asked to take Charles downstairs to the car. I pushed his wheelchair down the hallway slowly.

“The last time he sees this familiar hallway,” I thought.
“You are taking me on the beginning of my final journey,” he said, as we entered the elevator to take him downstairs.

Charles was helped into the passenger's seat. I kneeled down to talk to him one last time.

“I treasure the time I spent with you,” I started. “I treasure how you have lived and loved.”
“I wish you the very, very best,” he said, softly enunciating his words. His eyes held mine. “I hope you find that person,” he added. He knew. I knew.

We held hands and cried again. I stood up, turned around, hugged Freda, and went home.