My Beloved Suzanne
This website is dedicated to my beloved wife, Suzanne Nicole Whiting, whom we lost to cancer on February 18, 2006.
Thoughts
"Love never fails. If there are prophecies, they will be brought to nothing; if tongues, they will cease; if knowledge, it will be brought to nothing. ...
So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love."
— 1 Corinthians 13:8-13 (NAB-CE)
"Love never fails". Those are the words Suzanne had inscribed on the inside of my wedding ring. Throughout our life together, that was our motto. Below are some of the thoughts that I recorded in notepads following Suzanne's death, in more-or-less chronological order, some dated, most not. They reflect the emotions that I experienced for many years, until eventually it began to seem as though Suzanne were simply in another room of the house, where I could not see or hear her, but I knew she was there, and at some point I would find her there. This was a gradual growth, particularly after I entered the Catholic Church.
Suzanne is …
The one in whose beautiful face God's love has always been reflected, into the darkness, enlightening my way, inspiring me to awe and love and joy, to better myself. Next to God, she more than anyone else made me who I am.
I would never have appreciated Suzanne as much as I do now
I would never have appreciated Suzanne as much as I do now if I had not lost her. Not that losing her forced me to appreciate her more … it doesn't force anything (this is where critics are flawed), but it enables one to grow … in anticipation of the reality which they have glimpsed (as I did in 31 years of marriage to Suzanne).
All the condolences seem trite and pretty much useless
days or weeks after her death
All the condolences seem trite and pretty much useless. Now here's what would 'work': you trade places with her, i.e., you be dead and Suzanne be alive! Now that would be a great gesture.
I'm angry
I'm angry at myself because I couldn't fix things, because I panicked and didn't have the situation 'under control.' I'm angry at myself because things didn't happen the way they might have, … and because I can't remember what I want so desperately to be able to remember. To remember her, to remember us.
It sounds so trite to say 'I miss her'
months after her death
It sounds so trite to say 'I miss her'. It goes so far beyond that. It's like feeling nausea and then someone punches you in the stomach. The back half of you is pushing forward trying to make you cry, but the front half is resisting, trying not to cry. I can't run away from it; I must run toward it. Embrace her last pictures as much as the earlier ones.
I want so desperately to be able to remember. To remember her. To remember us. To remember the specifics, the particulars, the reality, not just imperfectly recalled memories.
The First Anniversary
February 19, 2007
Yesterday was, of course, a confused and confusing day. I can't quite fathom how a year could have slipped by already, just doesn't seem possible, I guess because Suzanne is in my mind every day, probably every hour: it happens frequently throughout the week that I'll start thinking something like, 'Oh I have to tell Suzanne about this when I get home' ... and immediately realize what I just thought. I've remarked on it to Mark (and possibly to you, too) that time has taken on a very different aspect to me now ... it's as if time doesn't 'pass' any more; I have no (or very little anyway) concept of one week changing to another week or even one day changing to another day. It's as if I'm locked in an eternal 'now'. That's the best I can explain it. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I have no more sense of expectation, no sense of planning for what we're going to do next weekend or next summer or after we retire ... since I can't conceive of doing anything without Suzanne.
Another Anniversary
February 19, 2008
Yesterday I put five Enya albums on the CD players and let the songs rotate throughout the day. Late in the evening I began reading some of our love letters from July '74 out loud, with Suzanne's picture in front of me as if I were reading them to her. With Enya softly playing in the background, it was very therapeutic—I laughed and cried as I read words I had totally forgotten, funny things that we shared with each other as we got acquainted and touching, meaningful things that in hindsight I so wish I had read to her those last few weeks. At 9:54 I got up to see which song was next in rotation and would be playing at precisely 9:56, as I intended to change it to one in particular, "If I Could Be Where You Are" ... but no need! Of the 80 some songs that were in rotation, that very song was in fact the next one to play! I really was tempted to make something of this, but I suppose it is just a remarkable coincidence. I turned the light out and just listened to the remaining songs on the Amarantine album, then went up to bed. I was so tired I fell asleep quickly, but woke up at 2:12 and couldn't get back to sleep until probably around 4:00 (I didn't want to look at the clock again!) When I did finally get back to sleep, I dreamt that old friends had joined me in a house that seemed to be our old house in Birmingham, as if we had all come together to remember Suzanne.
Out of Body, Out of Mind Experiences
When we were married, I remember I had a kind of 'out of body' experience at the wedding, only for a few minutes … I could see us both as if I were floating above the ceremony. I cannot explain the sensation, I only know that at the time I recognized it as the so-called 'out of body' experience, whether brought on by nerves or whatever, I had no idea. But the experience was profoundly and undeniably real. My body was frozen below and my mind was acting above.
When Suzanne died, I experienced for an extended period of weeks prior to her death and even for some time afterward what I would now call an 'out of mind' experience, kind of the inverse of the 'out of body' experience: my body was divorced from my mind, i.e., the body went through the motions that were required to care for her and attend to all the activities and responsibilities I had, but my mind was refusing to accept the reality of it all. I suppose this is what they call 'being in denial', but in retrospect it seems to me that it was being 'out of mind' while 'in the body'. My mind was frozen below, uncomprehending, and my body was acting 'above'.
Dreaming of Suzanne
February 23, 2010
I've been dreaming of Suzanne lately, perhaps a bit more frequently. Last night (Monday, February 22, 2010) I dreamt we were together in some sort of auditorium, possibly an "assembly hall", though it might have morphed into an assembly hall from some other sort of auditorium. Suzanne and I were together walking and talking about something or other, then I realized I needed to enter another area of the auditorium (possibly to find a restroom). Suzanne motioned toward a bench (or settee, I think) and said she would just lie down there and take a nap while I was gone.
When I awoke in the morning, I thought about it and realized this is the situation we find ourselves in: she is sleeping and awaiting my 'return', since it is I who must now go to her and our eternal home.
I can cry
April 4, 2010
I remember as a child, my father would not allow me to cry. Even when he was physically abusive, his threat was 'if you cry, I'll give you something to cry about.' Even my emotionally abused mother became somewhat hardened and, perhaps in denial of Gordon's abusiveness toward herself and her children, would say I was 'just feeling sorry for myself.' So I would do my crying in bed at night, under the covers. Or on long walks away from home. I remember walking one day up to Stevens Creek Reservoir from our house in Santa Clara, a trip of some four hours by foot. I don't think anyone even realized I was gone that day. I often walked for hours, to be alone and to be able to cry if I felt like it.
I can cry now—and often do, spontaneously—but now the solitude is not what makes it possible ... it is the reason: just a thought of Suzanne, a memory, an image, or just the quietness of being alone, missing her presence, her beautiful self, is the cause of my tears.
Dreaming of Suzanne Again
October 10, 2010
I dreamt of Suzanne this morning after hitting the snooze bar and drifting back to sleep: we were dancing, slowly holding each other close, and we kissed. It was so sweet, so peaceful, and reassuring …
Suzanne, a learning experience
Suzanne, you told me your illness was 'a learning experience.' But what you didn't say is that you were paying for my education. Now I see that. All our life together you paid in ways large and small so that I could (eventually) get the point. Now I see that life is for serving, not being served, an exchange of love without fear of 'losing' in the bargain. This is what it means to enter the Divine life. Even in your death you were teaching me. You were strong; I was not. You dealt; I could not. But if it's true that this is indeed 'a learning experience', it must be for a purpose: lessons learned must make a difference. And the one teaching it must benefit from the lesson as well as the one being taught. So I have hope—hope that one day I will be able to tell you I finally 'got it', thanks to you.
Life with Suzanne was a dance
It's poetic that Suzanne and I met at a square dance (evening of Saturday, March 30, 1974 at the Odd Fellows Hall in Berkley, Michigan), because our life together was always a dance: sometimes a tango, sometimes a waltz. There was always music, always a tempo, always a partner in everything I did. Now it is different: no music, just lethargy and loneliness. But the contrast does make me appreciate more than I ever did how wonderful Suzanne was. What a remarkable person in every way. And how blessed I am to be able to know that we are a pair, both in time and in eternity.
Suzanne's Humility
It never occurred to me during her life, but I could not miss it in retrospect: what a humble person Suzanne was; not at all focused on herself, but on what she was doing.
Two things I realized today
March 11, 2013
I realized that one of the reasons I miss Suzanne so much (and a reason why I was so happy with her as my wife) is that I felt SAFE with her in my life. She was always a source of comfort and protection and blessing, never a source of threat to my personal security and happiness. That sense of utter safety is something I never thought about until just today. We all need that 'safe space' in our life, and Suzanne was that space for me.
I realized that I am sinning by feeling sorry for myself. Having read about Nate, a 32-year old veteran with a wife and young daughter, who has been diagnosed with leukemia and may never live to see his little girl grow up, I realized it is selfish and foolish to be focused on my own grief and loneliness when I am not availing myself of the multitudinous opportunities to help others in much greater need than my own. I need to bring this to my next rite of reconciliation.
Lessons you cannot teach
July 15, 2013
A couple of years before Suzanne's death, the time ran out on getting reimbursement from the insurance company for a sofa that had to be replaced due to water leakage in our house. The insurance allowed for a two- or three-year period in which to submit the reimbursement request, and there was no question about it being approved … Suzanne simply forgot to submit it. After we realized the oversight and the fact that we had lost something like $600 in it, I was, admittedly perturbed. Normally Suzanne was always incredibly competent (much more so than I), handling all of our finances, home-related decisions, etc. But I was unhappy over the loss of some $600 unnecessarily. I don't remember now my exact reaction when she realized and admitted the oversight to me, but I know I was very upset inwardly. And I'm certain that it showed in an exasperated facial expression and frustrated tone of voice (which, I should make perfectly clear, I never ever raised in anger in 31 years of marriage!). In any case, I'm certain Suzanne felt very bad over the matter, and we never again mentioned it again.
Going on more than seven and a half years from her death, I look back with anguish at that incident. What I wouldn't give to be able to go back and relive that moment … to just hold Suzanne's hand and tell her, "Honey, it makes no difference; it doesn't matter. What matters is that we are together, that we have each other, that we can laugh at each other's oversights without anger or resentment, and that nothing … nothing at all can injure the love we have for each other."
There are some lessons in life you cannot learn except by experience.
Love Notes
During the last many years of her life, Suzanne wrote a little love note and put it in my lunch bag along with the lunch she had made for me. I still have many years of these notes stored away in large manila envelopes, one for each year of love notes. I kept three of them pinned to the refrigerator until after several moves, I returned them to their envelopes for safekeeping.
Miscellaneous Brief Thoughts
It seems like just one long day without you …
Suzanne loved out of abundance not need.
Life isn't fair … it doesn't come 'flavored'—it's vanilla and you add the flavor, whether 'fair' or otherwise.
We are meant for love.
Even in death I do not feel separated from Suzanne, only wounded.
Love fails only when we fail to love.