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MEMORIAL There is no subtle way to lead into what I need to write. A little before midnight on Saturday evening, the 21st of January at a "big band" dance, immediately following two swing numbers, my husband looked at me and said, "I'm feeling dizzy," swayed slightly and collapsed onto the dance floor. CPR began at once; the orchestra leader was an internist, a dancer was another M.D., another dancer was a cardiologist, and aided by nurse-dancers, all persevered to bring my fallen dancing partner to his feet. With the arrival of the ambulance and ultimately in the hospital ER, resuscitation efforts continued nonstop. My husband never breathed on his own again. It was nearing one-thirty when the cardiology team let him go. A while later I was allowed to sit with Stafford, that is, with the body that had been the home of his essence. I laid my hand high on his forehead and my head near his, aware it was the last time we would share a pillow. My thoughts zigzagged between the profound and the profane; had they been wired, their pattern on the monitor--like yarn unraveling from a tightly knit sweater--would have resembled the scrambled line that had represented Stafford's heart muscle's struggle to resume normal, effective pumping. I sat beside him, letting my thoughts have voice, believing that no matter how tangled they were, he would understand. After all, he always had. Any tears, however, were silent. I was bone weary from an evening of energetic dancing--we seldom paced ourselves; having my hair wet with perspiration and Stafford's shirt uniformly damp were normal manifestations of our dancing elation. I was in shock (and probably still am) from having giddy gaiety shattered by watching Stafford's healthy color replaced by an ashen pallor--I knew within minutes of him hitting the floor that he whom I loved was gone--trauma had drained most of my emotions and cushioned what was left, placing me in semi-numb state. Ah, Nature has such wisdom. But what sustained me then and continues to give me strength are these blessings. First, I know that my husband had absolutely no fear of dying. In fact, he often said that he rather looked forward to it, the new experience, the opportunity to grow more, "Not that I'm in a hurry for anything premature because I look forward to growing old with you. You'll know that I am moving on..."
Second, there was nothing incomplete about our relationship. We were current in what we needed to share with one another. There was nothing left unsaid or misunderstood, nothing about which to feel guilty. Third, I knew with every fiber of my being that my husband deeply loved, honored, cherished and trusted me, just as I did him. I was able to let him move on, never once feeling he had abandoned me. Protectors don't abandon. He knew I would be okay. I could not have experienced such a joy-filled marriage had I not gone through trials in tandem with and followed by recovery. Had I remained stuck on a pity pot, feeding my feelings of victimhood, there would have been precious little about me another would have found attractive--except someone similarly haunted and flawed. Instead I was privileged to be the wife of a man who had the respect of all who knew him and the love of most, who enjoyed so much inner security that I had both the freedom and his encouragement to be my very own self--someone he found stimulating, funny, and occasionally wise. He often said that he had learned so much from me. Translation: he benefitted from what I learned during recovery and since. Recently Stafford composed a bio blurb for his upcoming 50th Princeton reunion. The conclusion reads: "This second marriage has brought greater balance and much joy and support. It has sustained me through my stressful recent years. As a `professional couple'--Donna is very busy as a writer, editor, publisher and activist, and I am both a consultant and inventor--we are a great team. We are mutually supportive and very productive. We also dance every chance we get. Fred and Ginger, yet." Surely it takes no imagination to know that as happy as I am for Stafford--that he literally dropped his body and moved on having just spent an evening dancing up a storm--what a dancer! We first met, 20 years ago, dancing--that he passed on without suffering--what an exit!--that he's applying his impressive scholarship and enhancing his already remarkable spiritual growth on another plane--and that in spite of all these good feelings I have, I am also living with waves of sadness, sometimes overwhelming. I miss his serene aura, his incisive thinking honed "down among the molecules" (he held, at last count, over 35 patents), his sweet heart. But I know, just as sure as I know anything, that my husband, the best editor anyone could ever have, is encouraging me to keep on keeping on. He was proud of me and proud of Challenges. I've got a life. I'm not finished here. © Copyright Donna
Thompson.
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