I had forty-seven years to accept the reality that one of us would have to die first. Forty-seven years to make peace with that truth. Somehow, it never quite took hold. It has now been one year since my marriage ended, not because love did, but because life does. And when that moment arrived, I discovered that knowing something in theory is quite different from living it.
That exact moment in my life, when theory became reality as it burst through my very core, I shook with disbelief. Because, for so long, I fought the storm crashing upon our shore. I fought the ebb, the pull, the taking-away with every fiber of my being. When the tide came for Tod, I did everything in my power to stop it. I shook my fists, paddled like hell, screamed against the winds that came in with the tide. But nothing, not the doctors, not the research, not the tests or medicines, not even the love I held so fiercely, could stop it.
The tide was coming for him, no matter what I did. Desperately casting about for any port in the storm, I armed myself with every weapon I could muster. With love and care, I built dams and dikes that collapsed. With doctors and surgeries, I built bridges and detours that led us only back to where we had begun. I built as fast as I could, but the tide advanced steadily, relentlessly, as it has since the beginning of time. No matter how endlessly I cried, nothing could alter the destiny that awaited us. Acceptance became our only choice, and it was not a safe harbor.
And the tide came in. And it took him as it went out.
But it left me.
Alone on this shore. Still standing. Fists clenched at my sides, empty, staring into the horizon where he disappeared.
It is a beautiful shore. Make no mistake about that. It is filled with our children and grandchildren underfoot, and with memories reflected in tidepools that shimmer with mercury-like wonder. These lightning-filled tidepools, constantly replenished by my tears, flash with fleeting moments of our life, where grief and beauty meet in concert.
Over time, I noticed these tidepools are becoming rimmed with a silver lining so bright I can barely look into them. Staring into them sears my soul with bittersweet emotions, bringing me to my knees under a merciless force. They evoke a lifetime of love that lifts me into unbearable lightness, yet their very foundation rests on the truth that he is gone.
I am helpless, no, utterly incapable of looking away. I have developed a thirst for these bursts of light; they are a hot yellow-white-silver brilliance that blinds me as stars fill my eyes and heart. I have become a seeker of these silver linings. I am addicted.
And, as I stand on this shore, waves of the life we built take my breath away.
I remember learning to drive in his ’53 five-window Chevy, grinding the clutch to dust while he laughed and told me to try again.
I hear his calm voice guiding our family across a dangerous glacier, reminding us where to place our feet.
I see him laughing as the girls catch bait in the early Baja morning, the sun barely up, the smell of salt sharp in the air.
I feel his breath on my neck as he points out the Southern Cross in an Amazon midnight, his finger tracing a story across the sky.
I see us later, in years when we felt our time together was endless, giving freely and loving generously.
Standing here now, I have something I did not have for so many years during Tod’s illness: unscripted time. Time without urgency. Time that is not dictated by survival. Time that stretches quietly in front of me, asking nothing. At first, that openness felt unbearable. Silence can be louder than chaos when you are used to constant caretaker motion. There were days when the stillness pressed heavily against me, when grief threatened to fill every available space and convince me that this is all there ever will be. The illusion of having no choice shimmered in the distance like a mirage.
And yet, slowly, something else appeared beside it. Not instead of grief, but alongside it. A memory without pain. A laugh from another room. Sunlight warming my face in an early morning pause. These moments did not announce themselves. They were quiet, unassuming, and easily missed.
I began to understand that this shore was not a place of waiting, but of choosing. Life was still offering itself to me, not without loss, but honestly and without condition. The choice was not whether grief would exist, but whether I would allow it to eclipse everything else that remained. What would I choose?
The realization that I had the privilege of this choice came tentatively, without confidence. But once seen, it could not be unseen. Something shifted. A subtle opening. Even here, after all that had been taken, I was still invited to participate in life. I could still choose. I still had the privilege of choosing a future filled with life and joy if I so desired.
But whatever choice I made, other questions remained: What is this blinding light that rims my tidepools of reflection? How incalculable was its worth? These questions haunted me as I stumbled through deep and unrelenting grief. The caretaker’s sacrifice of self had dwelled deep and long inside of me, and it now mingled with the dark colors of loss and despair. It seemed as if grief was not only making it impossible for me to make a choice, but also to name and hold on to that brilliant silver lining.
And that silver lining was something to reach for and hold on to—for dear life.
And so I did.
I once thought of privilege as something external, something other people possessed. But when I flipped the script, it changed me. I began to see the life I had lived and the lessons it demanded as privileges entrusted to me. Even the hardest ones.
My hardest one? Holding my husband at the end of his life. It was neither fair nor easy. It was dark, murky, and devastating. But it was also a gift and a privilege. Not everyone is granted the gift of loving one person so deeply, or the privilege of standing with them at the threshold as their tide turns.
I realize, as I return to these tidepools of reflection, that all of life is a gift. All lessons, even the ones that break us open, are a privilege that carries a silver lining. I reflect on these tidepools, this light that frames my memories in the quiet of early mornings, and I think I see my future within. I believe there is clarity in the path I can choose going forward: this choice will not only cradle memories but, if I choose, can also reach, stretch forward, upward, onward, with joy and promise. This belief, this reflection of mine, makes me think that the silver lining in my tidepools . . . is me.
Take care,
dz