The Happiness of a Sad Time
Today is my 31st anniversary (legal), but it is actually the 49th year of my partnership with Bill Massey. Besides love, friendship and a Shakespearean meeting of the minds, we have always shared participation in the struggle against racism, war, misogyny, LGBTQ discrimination, environmental destruction and for socialism. Six years ago, I did not think we would be allowed to celebrate another year. Despite my protestation, he insisted he had to go to Madison in solidarity with Wisconsin workers. It was a bitter cold day, and when we got there he could barely breathe or walk. Instead, he sat by the PSL (Party for Socialism and Liberation) table and passed out leaflets to passers-by. Thankfully, his younger comrades took care of him and got him home that day. I prepared myself for the worst while trying to figure out how to buy a bit more happiness.
My love is triply disabled—age related macular degeneration has left him legally blind and unable to read or watch movies anymore; his lungs are destroyed from smoking and he has been on 5 liters of oxygen 24/7 since 2005 after a second hospitalization for pneumonia. In addition, he has a cruel essential tremor that makes it difficult to even do the simplest tasks like eat or operate the remote. Despite these difficulties he still has a very sharp mind, and I have been lucky since June of 2009 (layoff with generous package) to be able to stay home with him rather than going to work.
For six years, none of the tests the doctors did were showing a physiological reason for the fact that Bill can barely get out of bed most days. He feels robbed of what he loved—learning and fighting for a better life for humanity. You work with what you have, and my love is still surviving. When I first became his caregiver, I called our life the happiness of a sad time. Each year it gets harder to call it happiness, but still we go on.
As I went through these past years, one refrain that kept popping into my mind was that Jane Austen did not prepare me for this. Hers are stories that end at the altar. A good marriage and true happy-ever-after is so much more about what happens after one commits than before. However, I am being unfair to my favorite author. She allows us to see the humor in those delightful flawed people who populate her novels and our lives. That laughter is what keeps us going.
The thirteen-year age difference between myself and my husband is more like Col Brandon and Marianne than Darcy and Elizabeth. In fact, my beloved has very little in common with Darcy other than a willingness to change, being a good listener and a prolific reader. He is not particularly handsome. He was a poor kid, one of seven children from a five room apartment in the Bronx. Born during the depression, by the time I met him when he was 33 and I was 20, he had served two tours in the Marines, six months in an Irish Christian Brothers seminary (he likes to say he meditated right out of there one evening during the walk they took after dinner) and had been in jail with Dr. Martin Luther King as a participant in the Civil Rights Movement.
Like Emma and Knightley, we also were very good friends before we became a couple and in Henry Tilney style, he has always made me laugh. In our earliest days together, he read poetry and sang to me, but he was not at all like John Willoughby.
He has a fierce notion of right and wrong and fighting for his beliefs is the most important thing in his life. He was utterly fearless when I met him, and to a 20-year-old orphan from Chattanooga, Tennessee, that made him a very romantic figure.
When I was the victim of date rape, the word had not been coined nor the concept understood or even believed—it must be something the woman did that caused the misunderstanding. Bill was the only one of my friends (we were not yet a couple) who unequivocally validated my plight. In his best political speak, he declared my right of self-determination had been violated. No foolish duel fought for my honor, just friendship, a sympathetic ear and the belief I had been wronged. Most importantly, despite being drunk, it wasn’t my fault!
These past years, it has been Mr. Woodhouse who has been my constant companion. In a comment thread on one of the Jane Austen Fan Fiction (JAFF) sites about Our Favorite JA Heroes, someone said of Mr. Knightley, ‘is there any other JA hero who would be heroic enough to live with Mr. Woodhouse for the sake of love?’ I can’t speak for anyone else, but I can answer for myself with a resounding, YES!!!!.
The aging process robs one of so much that those who are younger and able-bodied take for granted. This fearless man I have lived with for 49 years, like Mr. Woodhouse, is now filled with anxiety and often slips into the blues and even sometimes anger at his loss of control and dignity—not to mention what capitalism does to the elderly in the United States. Bill worries when I go out that I will be hit while crossing a street—or get caught in a storm and catch a chill—or that someone will rob me of my phone—or I will get colon cancer if I eat a hotdog. He frets over my blood sugar going low to the point of complete distraction. That all sounds so romantic doesn’t it—he cares. It is until I hear, don’t I know I am his caregiver and must stay healthy for him. Most times he is totally without sentimentality when he worries about me. Sometimes, he throws in an occasional, “I love you,” but truth be told it is the material reality of self-interest speaking. Still, his fears and phobias are as rich and complex and, yes, even as loving as he was before. Catching a chest cold or losing a caregiver could be disastrous for both Bill and Mr. Woodhouse—it is not just a silly selfish notion. On a regular basis these days, once I step back from the annoyance, I am able to see the humor. Someday, I will write about this part of my life.
‘Goodly Creatures’ included my take on rape. Jane Austen had created a character who was seduced, impregnated and abandoned at fifteen. After reading ‘Sense and Sensibility,’ I wanted to vindicate Eliza Williams. As I entered the world of JAFF, I wrote a variation of ‘Pride and Prejudice’ with a similar event happening to Elizabeth Bennet. Ambiguous rape had been such an important part of my life and learning to love, particularly the way Bill responded. His attitude had been crucial in my ability to heal. I wanted to write a Darcy who could overcome prevailing opinions to gain a prejudiced Elizabeth’s trust. Many who only wanted a fluffy happy-ever-after, were incensed I would treat Lizzy as I had been treated. Check out my reviews, if you do not believe me. I even had one that insinuated I was advocating rape and pedophilia. On the other hand, some of ‘Goodly Creatures’ reviews were beautiful in their heartfelt emotions.
I also took my tale of Elizabeth and Darcy to the end. Death is real and in my book true love acknowledges all the stages of life. To show my commitment, to that thought: I am needed to dispense meds and help Bill to the commode.
Tune in next year, our 50th, to see if I am still trying to make happiness out of a sad time.
My love is triply disabled—age related macular degeneration has left him legally blind and unable to read or watch movies anymore; his lungs are destroyed from smoking and he has been on 5 liters of oxygen 24/7 since 2005 after a second hospitalization for pneumonia. In addition, he has a cruel essential tremor that makes it difficult to even do the simplest tasks like eat or operate the remote. Despite these difficulties he still has a very sharp mind, and I have been lucky since June of 2009 (layoff with generous package) to be able to stay home with him rather than going to work.
For six years, none of the tests the doctors did were showing a physiological reason for the fact that Bill can barely get out of bed most days. He feels robbed of what he loved—learning and fighting for a better life for humanity. You work with what you have, and my love is still surviving. When I first became his caregiver, I called our life the happiness of a sad time. Each year it gets harder to call it happiness, but still we go on.
As I went through these past years, one refrain that kept popping into my mind was that Jane Austen did not prepare me for this. Hers are stories that end at the altar. A good marriage and true happy-ever-after is so much more about what happens after one commits than before. However, I am being unfair to my favorite author. She allows us to see the humor in those delightful flawed people who populate her novels and our lives. That laughter is what keeps us going.
The thirteen-year age difference between myself and my husband is more like Col Brandon and Marianne than Darcy and Elizabeth. In fact, my beloved has very little in common with Darcy other than a willingness to change, being a good listener and a prolific reader. He is not particularly handsome. He was a poor kid, one of seven children from a five room apartment in the Bronx. Born during the depression, by the time I met him when he was 33 and I was 20, he had served two tours in the Marines, six months in an Irish Christian Brothers seminary (he likes to say he meditated right out of there one evening during the walk they took after dinner) and had been in jail with Dr. Martin Luther King as a participant in the Civil Rights Movement.
Like Emma and Knightley, we also were very good friends before we became a couple and in Henry Tilney style, he has always made me laugh. In our earliest days together, he read poetry and sang to me, but he was not at all like John Willoughby.
He has a fierce notion of right and wrong and fighting for his beliefs is the most important thing in his life. He was utterly fearless when I met him, and to a 20-year-old orphan from Chattanooga, Tennessee, that made him a very romantic figure.
When I was the victim of date rape, the word had not been coined nor the concept understood or even believed—it must be something the woman did that caused the misunderstanding. Bill was the only one of my friends (we were not yet a couple) who unequivocally validated my plight. In his best political speak, he declared my right of self-determination had been violated. No foolish duel fought for my honor, just friendship, a sympathetic ear and the belief I had been wronged. Most importantly, despite being drunk, it wasn’t my fault!
These past years, it has been Mr. Woodhouse who has been my constant companion. In a comment thread on one of the Jane Austen Fan Fiction (JAFF) sites about Our Favorite JA Heroes, someone said of Mr. Knightley, ‘is there any other JA hero who would be heroic enough to live with Mr. Woodhouse for the sake of love?’ I can’t speak for anyone else, but I can answer for myself with a resounding, YES!!!!.
The aging process robs one of so much that those who are younger and able-bodied take for granted. This fearless man I have lived with for 49 years, like Mr. Woodhouse, is now filled with anxiety and often slips into the blues and even sometimes anger at his loss of control and dignity—not to mention what capitalism does to the elderly in the United States. Bill worries when I go out that I will be hit while crossing a street—or get caught in a storm and catch a chill—or that someone will rob me of my phone—or I will get colon cancer if I eat a hotdog. He frets over my blood sugar going low to the point of complete distraction. That all sounds so romantic doesn’t it—he cares. It is until I hear, don’t I know I am his caregiver and must stay healthy for him. Most times he is totally without sentimentality when he worries about me. Sometimes, he throws in an occasional, “I love you,” but truth be told it is the material reality of self-interest speaking. Still, his fears and phobias are as rich and complex and, yes, even as loving as he was before. Catching a chest cold or losing a caregiver could be disastrous for both Bill and Mr. Woodhouse—it is not just a silly selfish notion. On a regular basis these days, once I step back from the annoyance, I am able to see the humor. Someday, I will write about this part of my life.
‘Goodly Creatures’ included my take on rape. Jane Austen had created a character who was seduced, impregnated and abandoned at fifteen. After reading ‘Sense and Sensibility,’ I wanted to vindicate Eliza Williams. As I entered the world of JAFF, I wrote a variation of ‘Pride and Prejudice’ with a similar event happening to Elizabeth Bennet. Ambiguous rape had been such an important part of my life and learning to love, particularly the way Bill responded. His attitude had been crucial in my ability to heal. I wanted to write a Darcy who could overcome prevailing opinions to gain a prejudiced Elizabeth’s trust. Many who only wanted a fluffy happy-ever-after, were incensed I would treat Lizzy as I had been treated. Check out my reviews, if you do not believe me. I even had one that insinuated I was advocating rape and pedophilia. On the other hand, some of ‘Goodly Creatures’ reviews were beautiful in their heartfelt emotions.
I also took my tale of Elizabeth and Darcy to the end. Death is real and in my book true love acknowledges all the stages of life. To show my commitment, to that thought: I am needed to dispense meds and help Bill to the commode.
Tune in next year, our 50th, to see if I am still trying to make happiness out of a sad time.
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Donna
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Sep 07, 2017 02:32PM
This was a wonderful description of lo e and ageing, and how to use our lives and experience to survive and create what we need to do. Admire you so much!
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Beautiful post that says a lot about both you and your husband. Blessings to you both.
Dear Beth, Thank you for this bit of news about your life and Bill's. Happy New Year John Barzman
