Member-only story
Facing 20,000 Books — Alone
A “capacity crowd” milled around the kitchen and living room on the afternoon after we buried my husband Dave. Many of the people there hadn’t seen his shelves of signed Jewish author books and creative work of Jewish artists, so in addition to munching and chatting, some circulated to look at the very abundant delights of the living room.
While this felt like the first day of mourning and missing Dave for the visitors, for me it capped months, even years, of recognizing the losses each day. Barely three years into our midlife marriage, Dave stopped driving after losing control of a rented red “muscle car” during our third book-buying trip to San Francisco. After that came the slow changes: not being able to walk as far (except when motivated to pace the length of a bookshop), struggling to climb the stairs (my contractor installed the extra bracing I requested), and worst of all, not remembering what we’d just talked about (it hurts — ask anyone whose partner is suffering a slow loss of brain capacity).
Abandoned in the living room sat the massive electric-powered recliner chair that Dave hadn’t used during the two weeks before his death. Before that, it had been his downstairs comfort spot, and losing his use of it as he became limited to our second floor (his office, our bedroom, the full bathroom) hurt us both. Just looking at it made me lonely.
