Being someone’s last love is beyond perfect!
I do write novels with love stories in them. Good-looking young couples with throbbing hormones fall in love and have to be with each other. It’s an escape. It’s a rollercoaster and that kind of love is terribly fun to write. But today I want to talk about a different kind of love. Being someone’s first love may be great but to be their last is beyond PERFECT.
Old people love. I know –you’re rolling your eyes. Wrinkles and passionate love scenes never really go together. I think we might be conditioned to expect firm butts and candlelight when we think of love. But some of the most stunning, real life stories aren’t about the sweaty, sideways. I’m going to give you an amazing example that’s real.
Picture a couple, married in their early twenties, living through the pre-independence era. Two children, five grandchildren and two great-grandchildren later, they still held hands. She fussed over his diet because of a heart attack he survived in his fifties. He danced with her in the small kitchen of the trailer they spent their days in while retired in Lucknow. When the grandchildren called, she would get on one phone and he on the other, talking at the same time and often asking the same questions in tandem. They were so connected; maybe it was just the vast amount of time they spent together that created that distinct togetherness.
Time took its toll, as time does. In their eighties, they went about their days helping each other get through daily tasks. His heart was always a concern and as they entered what surely was to be the twilight of their lives they made sensible decisions, for they were a sensible couple. Both agreed not to be resuscitated, neither wanting to live reliant on machines. The day came when his gorgeous heart
failed but before he lost consciousness, he demanded that they fight for him and ignore the DNR directive. Doctors and nurses are amazing, don’t you think? And he survived, but at a cost. He had trouble recognizing people. She was too frail to make the trip to the hospital often and at times he was combative. A week passed. Two weeks passed and he fought to come back to his family. Finally, finally he was able to say names, recognize his people. He looked for her, but she couldn’t make it to the hospital. So he forced himself to walk until amazingly, he came back to her.
Their children helped him into their home and she rose to meet him. Him with a cane and her with a walker– they met in the middle of their sweet, small kitchen.
“It’s you.” She said.
“It’s you.” He replied.
They touched each other’s faces. They held hands.
I’m not sure how much it hurts to take a breath after having two heart attacks, but he did just that for weeks to be with her. The last attack was too much for even his strong will. His final words were rejecting –yet again–the DNR orders. He wanted to go back to her.
There were so many people at his funeral, all eyes on her, worrying how she would do, how she could possibly manage.
It took a year. I’m not sure how much it hurts to live with half a heart, half a soul but she did just that for almost exactly a year. You see, she was just a day shy of the anniversary of his death when she returned to his arms in Heaven. She didn’t even try to fight; she wanted to go back to him so much.
It is not the age that matter but the love that remained immortal. Because they did love so, so right.