This Is Not How It Ends

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

In each loss there is a gain, As in every gain there is a loss, And with each ending comes a new beginning. —Buddhist Proverb

I’ve heard it said that life is about choices. Paths stretch out ahead of us—sometimes, we make conscious decisions and other times, fate intervenes and chooses for us.

“You don’t always have to physically go somewhere to experience something magical.”

Organized religion is the root of dissension. People can surprise you, though most of them won’t. Love is the precursor to hate.”

“They say home is in the heart, it’s being with the people you love.”

“So why is it the heart is always the first to break?”

Humans want what they can’t have. I’m nothing if not human.

It explains quite a lot of transactions. Don’t you agree? How we sell our souls to someone or an idea when it makes no logical sense.”

Words had power. They carried weight and, when strung together, invited you inside their world.

Surprise catches you off guard in the most vulnerable moments. Shock pools before quietly seeping out.

Happiness wasn’t overrated. It was a gift meant to be cherished and held tight.

“Moms are magicians. Did you know that? They’re always around us. Even when we can’t see them.”

My heart was full, and the words poured out. “I know, Jimmy, because . . . because my mom died . . . like yours . . . and I know she’s everywhere and nowhere. I don’t see her, but I swear to you, she’s out there.”

“I’ve read the body holds our misfortunes, that sensitivities are a combination of the physical and the emotional. It could be Liberty nonsense, but who really knows? Pain may not have a cure—only time.

Each of us felt loss, whether it was through a seed planted inside or one nearby that took root and grew. Loss didn’t discriminate, it was a game of chance. Like love. And sometimes even love led to isolation. Loneliness, by definition, is a solitary experience, but I learned painfully fast how loneliness travels through skin and body and binds you to those with similar hurt.

There comes that moment when you’re holding someone and the pieces of you just fit. Words are useless. The parts of you string together—souls touch through gentle fabric—and when you separate, you both know there’s a lingering strand that forever connects.

“When life throws a curveball, you have a decision. You can go on being angry and empty, or you can move toward peace. It’s living or dying. Choose the path that makes you feel alive.”

“Then let him be a part of the next chapter.”

“When you love someone,” he began, “nothing should keep you apart.”

“Listen to me, Charlotte. I want you. All of you. I never thought I’d have another chance. Never thought I’d feel anything like this again. I’ll be here for you. I’ll give you that family you want. I’ll fill you up with so many babies, you’ll never be alone.”

Love doesn’t give us many chances. It’s fate and we have to take it while we can.

He was wind; I was rain. Together, we were the perfect storm.

This is not how it ends. This is definitely not how it’s going to end.”

Like most patients on the precipice of death, denial was one of the first emotions to reveal itself. I listened to Philip, who was cloaked in a veil of obvious confusion, wondering if he fully understood.

I was supposed to be one of the lucky ones.”

I don’t have time. None of us have time. We only have moments. Strung on a string that can break at any minute.”

“The string’s bound to break. They all do.”

“You don’t get to give up! Not on you. Not on me. Not on us.”

I sat in an exaggerated silence, and I knew the denial would come to an end when we returned to Islamorada. The shock would wear off, and we’d be forced to face the awful truth. My almost husband was going to die. And there was nothing I could do to save him.

“I’ll love you forever, Charley, and every minute in between. You feel it. It’s real. This. You and me.”

When you’re faced with losing someone, the battlefield changes. I had fallen into one of my students’ thesis papers. I wanted what I couldn’t have, and I wanted Philip to live.

“Charley,” he said again, “I know how strong you are. It’s why I chose you.” He was crying, too, and it was one of our saddest moments. The kind that engraved itself in our souls.

“Next time choose vanilla,” he said with a tinge of sadness. “Impulsive, successful in close relationships. Choose vanilla.”

Home isn’t home when the person you love is dying.

That’s the thing about betrayal. It’s convoluted and malleable, changing to fit an individual story. It doesn’t always mean you love one person more than another. For some, it means your heart is cracked in two. Falling for Ben didn’t mean I stopped loving Philip. It just meant I was selfish and confused.

“Mortality’s an interesting thing, Charley. When faced with it, our decisions hold far more weight.”

Everywhere I looked there were repercussions from our collective decisions.

It won’t change what happened, but it might chang...

To a seven-year-old, leaving was only temporary. As it should be. Forever was an infinite sadness children should never have to measure.

If there was anything Philip’s illness taught me, it was less thinking and more living. To stay young, you had to act young. Tossing my inhibitions aside, I welcomed the water against my skin—that moment, suspended in air when I was a part of the sky.

“A guy was admitted to the hospital with six plastic horses in his stomach. They’re saying his condition is stable.”

“jokes about PMS are not funny. Period.”

Cancer ravaged bodies, but losing the self, autonomy and pride, was far more destructive. Of all the heartache we endured in those final days, nothing hurt worse than watching this vital man stripped of dignity. It was a cruel fate.

“What do you call the wife of a hippie? Mississippi.”

we have to live while we’re alive. Losses hurt—man, they’ve crippled me—but we have to pick ourselves up and find happiness again.

When someone is dying, there is a period of time before the actual death that is met with a surge of energy. This heightened vigor turns the weakest strong, and caregivers falsely believe their loved ones are on the upswing. The irony of the transformation is that the bout of renewed energy usually signifies imminent death.

the surge a nasty trick.

No one ever talks about the end. How in days leading up to it, you beg a higher power to take your loved one away, to relieve them of their suffering. And then when they pass, you can’t imagine anything more horrible. The finality. The dissolution. It’s the great paradox, the ill-fated hypocrisy: In life we watch them suffer. In death it is we who suffer. There is no in-between.

Philip had barely uttered any words that day, but I do were two that I’d hold on to for the rest of my life. If he never said another word to me, I knew what those words meant. They meant his promise to me, his love, and I would take them with me wherever I went. I would honor him, and our love. I would keep him alive so the world would never forget.

For the first time in weeks, Philip’s face was peaceful and calm. I rested my head atop his chest to remind him I was close. That I’d be there with him. He’d never be alone.