Intellectually, I knew where I was the whole time. Right in my living room where I can be found almost every evening. The living room, which unlike many other rooms in my oversized house, has always been used in the same way – primarily for relaxation at the end of the day. And, which will in September, have been used that way for the last 48 years. Which I consider to be a very long time, compared to just 10 years, or even 20. After having moved every year from 1968, as a first year college student, to 1978, I still occupy the first house Michael and I bought together. We’d been together for six years, living together for four of those and married for two. Back in 1978, we thought this was our “starter” house. Surprise, surprise. We couldn’t have predicted the future back then when we thought we knew almost everything. In any case, I’m still here.
This living room has been a gathering place for family and friends. Over the years, a room for celebrations, hanging out, confrontations, political meetings and sexy trysts. The play area for babies and the space for watching movies with my teenaged grandson. Also a resting place for the sick and the dying. For the past nine-plus years since Michael’s death, it has been my cozy evening spot, where I watch the news, binge-watch television shows and watch my beloved tennis. The place where I read, draw and knit. The place where I work my way through the boxes and files stuffed with papers and keepsakes that I keep sorting out, in the hope of downsizing. To make life easier for my kids after my demise. I know, I know. They don’t want my stuff. So I keep at this seemingly endless task. Forty-eight years provides ample opportunity for accumulating all kinds of memorabilia. Thus, every week or so, I work on either throwing things away, or recycling and donating them, mostly while I amuse myself with whatever is interesting on the tube.
So there I was, in my living room. I was being myself, this person with a goal for the night. I almost always have one, a goal, I mean – in my head I hear my dad saying “you have to make a plan.” I had my plan. I’d dragged a big box into the living room with me, a box labeled: Cards and Letters. The plan? Empty the box. I had a fair idea about what I would find inside, an accumulation of greeting cards and letters exchanged between my family members. But when I actually opened it, except for just a scant few, most of these cards were from Michael to me or me to him. I was surprised Shortly after he died nine years ago, I’d dug through many of those cards and pulled out the most memorable ones. I put them in an album, so I could read them over and over again. For almost a year I kept that album in my bed to sustain me when I needed…I don’t know – comforting, I guess, when I was too sad. So I wasn’t expecting to find anything new that might trigger any kind of emotional intensity – been there, done that already. Or so I thought.
My daughter had mentioned that recently, she’d decided to dump all her greeting cards which, good historian that she is, she’d stashed away for years. Piece of cake, she told me. I took that as a good sign and figured a cursory glance would be enough before I, too, would pitch everything from the box into the recycling bin. Ah, the best-laid plans and yes, I should’ve known better. I couldn’t resist – I started reading through each card, slowly, one at a time. I realized that I’d put them aside in chronological order. Back then, we wrote dates on almost everything. And we wrote in cursive, that disappearing ancient custom. Michael had such beautiful handwriting. Anyway, I discovered that the first card was dated 1972, the year I moved in with Michael, and the last was in 2016, right before his illness took over the rest of our time together. I realized that the printed message in the card wasn’t ever enough for us – almost every single one had a personal additional comment, one we’d written just to make sure we’d really expressed ourselves. Yeah. We both did that. What I thought was going to be a quick chore slowed down, way, way down. I was lingering over every word.
Then, after only a short time, the atmosphere in the living room started to feel very different. I’ve struggled with how to describe what I felt. As I said, I knew I was in my living room. But the actual physical structures around me seemed to melt, giving me the sense that I was floating in some intangible rhythmic goop. Like being inside a water bed without the sloshing? I don’t know. But it was warm and rushing. I knew I was still in the living room. I knew I was me. But I was also somewhere else. Some place I’d left behind which was the strangest combination of unfamiliar, but yet well-known. I felt awash in comfort. I was melting too. I distinctly remember raising my head from the cards and looking around the room and thinking, I’ve time-traveled. To somewhere. I’m back in that space where I knew, that no matter what was happening in my life, I was still somebody’s baby. More relaxed than my adult self. Smaller, more vulnerable. And it was ok. Better than ok. I felt like I hadn’t been how I was feeling in a very long time.
In my current regular life, I honestly can’t recall the last time I thought of myself in that way, “baby,”or any other soft diminutives for that matter. Honey, sweetheart, darling? No. Not in forever. I think of myself as a full-on woman, a grownup, strong and capable. I started working toward being that person when I was quite young. The world seemed to me to be a place where being assertive and powerful was necessary, the best skills for coping with what life tosses in your path. I wanted to be good at managing problems instead of being undone by them. What happened around me early in life set the stage for that choice. I saw lots of “being undone,” a catch-all phrase for plenty of trauma in my family. Not for me. I would do the caregiving, never being the one needing care. I would endure. No falling apart. Yes. That was my modus operandi, way back when and going forward. Except for one thing.
When I was just twenty I ran into Michael. And this magical connection happened. I’ve never wholly understood it. But it was real. And while I was busy growing myself, and together, we were growing our life with all its normal issues and challenges, I was simultaneously getting stronger while still totally being Michael’s baby. How did those twin levels coexist? I don’t know. But they did.
I know that when Michael and I became friends back in 1971, he inspired a level of trust that I had never previously felt with anyone before. Not in my family, not in my friendships, not with my boyfriends. With all those other people, I’d felt love, both for them toward me and I toward them. But I had a filter. I was wary. For a multitude reasons of reasons, I was never 100% myself, not with anyone. Sometimes I was ashamed or embarrassed. Sometimes I was uncertain about whether I truly felt sure of who would be able to put my needs first if I needed that. Sometimes I was protecting my image. Life felt complicated. I was guarded. Scared. But for some reason, from our very beginning, Michael made me feel safe. I could be all me, all the time. I could tell him anything without fear. Now of course, there were times when we needed to work things out. But that fundamental trust never changed. He was the best friend I ever had, the person who could always set himself aside and put my interests first. Kind of miraculous. That was so freeing for me. I could totally relax. I could be cared for, no strings attached. Just like a baby. Which is what he called me, all the time. My baby. A common endearment, but so special and unique to me.
I felt that safety for the rest of my life with Michael. No matter what was happening with us, that constant trust and care was always the bedrock of our relationship. The truest friendship. When he was dying, I was his caregiver, a role I was glad to fill. One day in the midst of the sadness and the confusion, he looked at me and said, “you really have no idea how strong you are.” The truth is, I kind of did. Our special bond helped me to be that strong person he needed and also, who I needed to be for him. What he couldn’t possibly have known back then, as I didn’t, was that I never relinquished that strength after he died. Not really. I needed that armor for my new life without him. Unconsciously, I put away that wholly safe space his presence provided for me. I needed to take care of myself. I have no regrets regarding that silent choice. But on this night, with those cards and their loving declarations, I was transported to that place which sustained me for decades. I felt filled up. Rejuvenated. I realized I will always be Michael’s baby. What a luxury to know that sensation, which though, more in the ether now, I suppose, is still as true as it always was. How amazing. The gift that keeps on giving, as the saying goes. A unique and transformative moment, unexpected and welcomed, right in my living room.
That night, I just let myself feel what had surprised me in the best possible way. But the next day, I was able to gather up a big pile of those cards to toss into the recycling bin. I took the photo above as proof for myself. But I also saved some for another night. You just can’t downsize everything. Certainly not enduring big love.