Anticipating the Unpredictable

Unpredictable Anniversary

Across the patio table my gaze lifted skyward beyond my husband towards the evening’s gentle settling. Pink hues tinged the dissipating thunderheads, their ominous threat lessened by the edging of the sun’s final beams, a soft end to turbulence. Their danger had passed; the tornado warnings unfulfilled and a mirror to an unpredictable day.

“Well, did you think to make it to twenty-nine years?”

My husband raised his wineglass for a toast. We were celebrating our wedding anniversary. It was the first time eating at a restaurant since the easing of pandemic shutdowns, and we had been looking forward to our celebration at a favorite restaurant. The outing was much anticipated after a long period of culinary abstinence.  

I hadn’t considered the number of years taken to make our marriage work, so I offered a simple response.  “That was my commitment.”

“Yeah, but things happen. People get divorced.”

“You’re right,” I conceded then added there were things like sickness, car accidents, job losses and myriad other life forces that could wreak havoc on a marriage.

Marriage, as in any relationship, isn’t easy, and we had had our fair share of ups and downs. But on balance, the ups weighted more heavily than the downs.

“It’s not better or worse. It’s just different now than at year one or five or fifteen.”  

I wasn’t doing a good job of explaining the influence of unpredictable forces on relationships, but like the weather I wanted to say our relationship was developing into something similar to today’s end, tinged with a softer hue. But that point of communication continued a downward slide.

“Things change. I don’t know if it’s true, but I read somewhere that every seven years cells regenerate and we become different people.”

I was still not hitting the mark on gladly reminiscing about our years together. The tone was off. But my husband didn’t do any better with a non-memorable response when I returned the question and asked if he thought to make it to twenty-nine years. Exhaustion from a long workday likely robbed him of a thoughtful answer. The lack of adequate support in his work environment was increasingly worrisome. Every day another piece in my husband’s armour came unhinged because of stress.

Unpredictably, our evening conversation turned muted and subdued, not resonating the anticipated joyful notes of celebration.

Unpredictable Death-Bed Summons

But we couldn’t have predicted that morning’s death-bed summons either.

My flexible work schedule allowed me to drop the day’s plans when my nephew called. He was rolling out the door with my ninety-year-old mother, taking her to see her ailing ninety-one-year-old sister.

Was this it? Suffering from an incurable and mostly untreatable disease, my aunt’s health had been declining for years. She had become bedridden in the last few weeks. This morning she was unresponsive. The home care nurse could not wake her. But one’s hour of death is as unpredictable as the emotional turbulence associated with its uncertainty.

An hour later I joined the bed-side vigil, my breath catching to see my beloved aunt’s gaunt face with eyes closed, mouth open and sporadic breathing. Reduced to a mere eighty-five pounds, the blankets mounded her diminutive form. When awake she continually complained of feeling cold.

At her head sat my mother with arthritic fingers stroking back thin wisps of hair that fell across her sister’s brow. The room was full of masked people: her husband of sixty-three years, youngest daughter, oldest daughter on Skype from Taiwan, oldest granddaughter, youngest granddaughter on Skype from British Columbia, my nephew and his girlfriend, my mother, the nurse and me. We cycled around tendering words of comfort and gently coaxing a response.

My mum: “Beryl, it’s Betty.”

My uncle: “Can you hear me, love?”

The nurse: “Beryl, are you in pain?”

As others wetted her lips and wiped her face, I silently prayed for her comfort. “Please, Lord, let her feel your love. And not be in pain, or afraid, but at peace.”

In unpredictable ebbs and flows intermingled joy and sorrow, laughter and tears.

And then, surprise tinged with cautious optimism. My aunt revived.

“Do you know who I am?” My uncle pressed.

A long hope-filled pause ensued as if my Aunt was pulling from deep inside, drawing from an internal well an answer to an important question. An answer she knew well, but was slipping away.

And then clearer than any of her prior mumblings: “You are my husband.”

The room sighed with a collective breath of joy.

Unpredictable Settling

It was a gentle settling of a turbulent day, reminiscent of that evening’s thunderheads subdued by the sun’s soft glow. A storm averted.

Once I returned Mum to her home and drove the half-hour to my place, I wanted to curl up and fall asleep. Such was the aftermath of the day’s tsunami of emotions. No wonder the anniversary dinner lethargy.

Scheduled for the next day was a visit by a palliative care doctor. Hopefully, my uncle and cousin would receive support and options for my aunt’s care.

But it was the unpredictable response of my aunt to her husband that later settled my response to my husband’s dinner-time question. And I echo, “You are my husband.”