What I Heard

It was a warm morning two years ago, the sun was shining, the treetops were dancing, and I had just finished teaching three back-to-back classes during a six week summer session. Trilling the hallelujahs of Handel’s Messiah loudly in the car, I was driving over the Santa Cruz mountain to turn in my students' grades. It had been an arduous year and I was anticipating the sprawling days of August to recuperate before the regular semester began.

I was completing a round of deep inhalations/slow exhalations when two scriptures slid into the rhythm of my breathing. “Weeping may endure for the night but joy cometh in the morning.” And then, “In this world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” The first from the old testament; the second, a new testament rendition of the former. I had not picked up a Bible in over a year, but I was steeped in its teachings. Why these verses? Why this day?

I was raised an Episcopalian (my mother’s practice) and in my late 20’s I became a Baptist (my father’s practice). Since my escape to California over twenty years ago, I had developed a Buddhist leaning. When, inquiring minds push me to declare my faith, I have taken to telling them, “I’m a Baptabuddhapalien.” Elements of each speak to me. But I must admit, when my spirit can’t find a peaceful resting place, it often alights on a Biblical passage, buried deep in my heart, to lead the way.

On this sunny August morn, two months after my husband Chaz had undergone back surgery to relieve the pain of bulging discs and damaged nerves, I was finally exhaling. The emergence of the scripture felt like a celestial pat on the back. I was certain that I was receiving assurance that Chaz and I had survived a major stress to our marriage, and now we would be entering a stage of rejuvenation. Joy was finally going to come to our morning.

The past four years had been challenging, difficult even, but the past five months had been close to impossible. My dear husband had been born with congenital nerve apathy in his eyes and declared legally blind by age three. In spite of his severe visual impairment, he had traversed this planet fiercely independent for 48 years. Chaz was proud of the fact that he had surmounted the challenges of living and working in major cities such as New York, Chicago, and San Francisco. However, with the onslaught of a mobility disability, his world was shrinking, and every fiber of his freedom-loving soul fought the imposed constraint. Chaz had been exiled from the active life he had known, and this new phase of his life…our life …was not a part of his plans. "Unacceptable!," he would mumble.

Psychologist Abraham Maslow once said: “If all you have is a hammer, then everything appears as a nail.” Likewise, YaYa Bowmann says: “If all you feel like is a prisoner in your own life, then anyone who lives with you appears to be an overlord."  I had unwittingly become the enemy.

Chaz had lost more than his physical equilibrium from the back injury. Unable to work or get around without great effort and discomfort, he had become disgruntled and cranky, then angry and withdrawn. He spoke of feeling anxious and depressed. The computer became his constant companion and solace while I became the target of his frustration. One day, short on patience myself, I told Chaz, “I think there must be a UFO hovering in the eucalyptus grove behind our home, the crew of which has kidnapped my real husband, and replaced him with this curmudgeon impostor.”

I prayed daily that the upcoming surgery would not only relieve the pressure from his sciatic nerve, but would also dissipate the strain in our relationship.

Chaz’s surgery was performed on June 5; he was home by the 9th. I had one week to get him settled in before I would be out of the house, 45 miles away at work, from 10:30 a.m. to 9:30 p.m.

We clashed over his recovery. I promoted a slow, cautious healing process; while he pushed himself everyday to return to his former able-bodied state. He ignored every precaution his doctor advised. “Wait two weeks before you start climbing stairs," the doctor admonished. Chaz waited two days. “Keep the walker with you, even when you don’t think you will need it. You never know when you will tire.” Chaz disposed of the walker like Forrest Gump threw off his crutches, just a week after returning home from the hospital.

I realized, not soon enough, that I needed to employ a rusted old skill—detachment. I had to let go and try to flow. This was Chaz’s recuperation, not mine. I could not control his process. In the meantime, Chaz was a man on a mission. He was inching around our home daily repeating: “I am moving forward. I am moving forward.” His declaration of independence. I thought I understood it.

The day after I submitted the summer grades, Chaz and I were having breakfast at our favorite café. I was chirping and warbling about the mid-week dates we would be able to resume now that he was feeling better and able to move more freely. Once again, we would be able to enjoy the things we used to do together before my partner became my patient: weekend bike rides, concerts, plays, vacations, sex. Ah, sex. When was the last time? When was the last time?

As I chattered, Chaz concentrated on swirling pieces of home-fried potatoes through the yellow lake on his plate. As he bent over, one of his long dread locks skimmed the yoke. When I reached  to wipe the yellow stain from his hair, he looked up abruptly, caught my hand in mid-air and spoke: “To tell you the truth, I am leaving. I have rented a room. I will start packing today. I should be completely moved by Friday.”

Lightning did not strike, thunder did not roll, the earth did not quake. It was eerily quiet, but everything had changed in an instant. This is not an alien impostor. This is my husband Chaz. I had been listening to his daily mantra: “I am ready to move forward. I am ready to move forward.” I just did not understand: He meant without me.

The moment those unstoppable words spilled out of his mouth, I felt like a hummingbird, shot down and stuck in the maple syrup on my plate. I was struggling to breath, trying to focus my eyes, listening for his voice to pull me out of this drowning.

Nothing.

And then my heart heard it again: “Weeping may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.”