Back to the Garden

by Rachel Walton

The day before he died, my husband Franny made a request:  Would I help him make his way to the bedroom window, so he might look at the garden?  And so, of course, I did.  

I raised his hospital bed, pulling him to sitting, wrapping my arms around his back. I  transferred him gently to the wheelchair, wheeling it to face the window. Outside, flickering  yellow blossoms reached for the sun. I squatted beside Franny, pointing to the forsythia he gave  me years before on Mother’s Day. I wasn’t a mother, and he knew the tenderness of the day. I  pointed to the rose bush he’d tended so carefully over the years, covering the roots with mulch  each fall, pruning their thorny branches in the spring, watering them each evening in the summer.  We stayed like that for a while, Franny and I—he, in his wheelchair, me, by his side—taking in the garden together.  

I contemplated the wrought-iron balcony he’d built off the window. I’d always meant to  put geraniums there, but somehow never got around to it. Beyond the balcony, the white fence  the neighbors built reinforcing the boundary between our properties—much to my annoyance—  now seemed just another part of the landscape. The red maples were leafing, and the moss-covered brick patio brought back memories of summer dinners with friends. Vegetable and  flower beds were empty, covered with leaves and twigs. It was still early in the season. The  adjacent backyards were quiet that day—no children, no pets. No one tending their gardens.  

I stepped back, allowing Franny a moment to himself, drinking him in—the dark  silhouette in the afternoon light; the fly-away, post chemo hair. The square shoulders and upright  posture. The oxygen tubing trailed behind him, and the sun cast his figure in shadow on the ivory  rug. Our little black dog, Bear, lay next to one wheel. His head up, looking out the window with  Franny.  

~  

Two days after Franny died, the magenta roses in the garden appeared luminous—more brilliant  than I’d ever seen them.  

Their color so radiant, they almost looked translucent.  

~  

Franny was a runner, a mountain climber, a squash player; he needed to move, to be outdoors. Me, I needed nature, needed to hear bullfrogs bellowing for their mates. I needed to watch  chipmunks scamper over leaves and roots, needed to hear robins sing. I needed to inhale the  scent of air drenched in greenery—sycamores, motherwort, ferns. When Franny first became ill,  we walked in our local park. When he became too weak to leave the house, we took to sitting in  our garden. And when cancer made that impossible, we watched the garden from our window.  

~  

Pain smolders near my right eye as I write this. I used to get migraines when I was young; they  eased somewhat in my fifties, but found their way back to me after Franny died. The pain begins in the hollow of my temple, filling it before seeping into my eye, my cheek, my ear, sloping  down into my neck, impossible to ignore. Voices are too loud—everything is too loud, too hot,  too much, like a thousand iron rods pressing into my temple.  

I try to think beyond the fire, up and over it.  

~  

A crushing heartbreak when my first love found another. Numerous wrong choices. Hands  thrown up—no more men, I’m okay with myself—  

Until Franny, a man generous with love.  

I’d parked in his driveway. It was so steep, I wondered how I’d ever manage to back out.  His wife, Elin, was dying. Colon cancer. I’d met Elin in the doctor’s office where I worked as a  nurse; in her last days, she’d called. Knowing I had worked as a hospice nurse, she asked me to  visit.  

Franny walked out of the garage to greet me, startling me. Tall, thin, square-jawed with  shoulder-length gray hair combed straight back, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his  keys. Black polo. Blue jeans. Sunglasses. I introduced myself, shook his hand and slipped inside  the house to visit his wife.  

Elin sat upright in bed, belly swollen with cancer. Petite, pale, delicate. She reached out  one hand, scooting over to give me room. We sat quietly for a bit, holding hands; I assured her  I’d help her over the next few days. I spent two days, sun-up to sundown, turning her, bathing  her, administering pain meds, setting up the hospital bed.  

On the third day, as I was leaving my house for Elin’s, my phone rang.  

Franny’s voice came over the line. “I think Elin is dying,” he said. 

I grabbed my purse and drove the few blocks, arriving too late. Franny sat on the bed  opposite his wife; his fifteen-year old daughter lay by her mother, one arm draped across her  belly, weeping. His son stood at the end of the bed, holding his sister’s feet. Elin’s bedside table  was strewn with the clutter of the past few days—pain and anti-anxiety meds, tissues, flowers.  When the time felt right, I stood to leave.  

“Call if you need anything,” I said to Franny.  

~  

One month later, Franny did call, and we had lunch.  

~  

We had four lunches over the course of that year, me always holding a boundary. I offered care  to your wife. Nothing more. But one day, in a bustling Italian restaurant, Franny leaned forward,  both elbows on the table, blue eyes staring into mine, and said, “How can I know you better?”  The question rushed through me, filled me, brought light and love to all of me, and he and I  stepped into each other. We traveled to monasteries and mountains, ate turkey sandwiches  garnished with strawberries, and married on a misty November afternoon, surrounded by friends  and family.  

~  

Franny loved to cook. His specialty was a slow-simmered tomato, onion, chicken and pepper  sauce, poured over thick egg noodles. It warmed and filled me; it was delicious. But the best part  was the chopped parsley he sprinkled around the edges. The vase of geraniums in the center of  the table. The fresh-pressed linen napkins, folded meticulously. Or maybe the best part was the  candlelight. 

For Franny, a meal was a gift.  

~  

Christmas and birthday presents were wrapped with precision and tied with colorful satin bows.  If our scraggly raspberry bush grew only five raspberries, he’d find all five and place them on a  plate next to a sandwich for me. “Our harvest,” he’d say, his hand sweeping toward the dish with  a gesture of presentation.  

If I returned from work with a headache, he’d bring sparkling water with blueberry and  lime juice. Sometimes, tea with crackers.  

In one way or another, Franny was always saying, “Here’s something beautiful for you.” 

 ~  

Five and a half years after our wedding, I found Franny pacing on the back patio, shoving his fist  into his solar plexus, crying with pain. Ten straight days of procedures, tests, scans, and doctor’s  appointments—each day, like a two-by-four hitting us in the head.  

One quiet morning, uncharacteristically free of both tests and appointments, Franny’s  cell phone rang as we were motoring down 5th Avenue en route to get coffee. Franny turned onto  a side street and pulled over. We parked in the shade of a maple tree. Brick buildings stood  strong, backdropped by blue sky. Franny put the call on speaker so both of us could listen. The  voice resounded through the car, echoing a little. “Your scans surprised me.” We both stared at  the phone.  

“Chemotherapy is your only option.”  

~ 

Eleven months later, in the dark of a spring night, Franny died in our bed, wrapped in the nest  I’d made of cozy blankets and pillows.  

~  

I look around as I write this now: To my left, a large photograph of smoke trees blooming purple,  taken by a friend. Straight in front of me, a watercolor of a Brazilian orchid growing from dried  grasses. A round nightside table, brass lamp, books, floral sprays, and a photograph of the two of  us in parkas, huddled close on a wintery day.  

~  

“Your bones are thin,” the doctor says to me. “It’s unusual in someone your age.”  I’m fifty-six years old. It’s been one year since Franny died. I’m in my endocrinologist’s  exam room—beige walls, an exam table, a sink and counter—the usual set-up.  “Tell me about your diet?” she asks. “How much coffee do you drink?”  

~  

Apparently, my bones are weakening.  

“Exercise? Smoking? Soda intake?”  

Yes, I exercise—walking and yoga. No, I don’t smoke. No soda either.  

“History of broken bones?”  

Again, no.  

“Do you have a family history of osteoporosis?”  

No, no, no. 

So many questions. Endless questions. Except the one I wish she’d ask: I noticed you changed your marital status in your medical chart from “Married” to  “Widow.” Tell me, how are you?  

~  

I feel dense trying to comprehend this new diagnosis. But dense is precisely what I’m not. My  bones are eroding, giving way. Their honeycomb architecture hollowing. My new bone cells  aren’t being made quickly enough to replace the dying cells. Even my bones are weary.  

~  

As a little girl I had tea parties with myself under a weeping willow. A little opening allowed me  to crawl inside the tree, where I wrote letters to imaginary people, swept the dirt floor and  arranged a home, decorating it with stones, leaves and twigs. A secret place that I called my own.  It’s structure as strong as the willow tree. The space hollow.  

~  

The day after Franny’s funeral, I went back to the cemetery. Wildflowers that had covered his  pine coffin now lay on the ground, I grabbed a random handful of bulbs and took them home to  our garden, where I hollowed out the earth by the dogwood tree, filling the space with the bulbs.  Then covering them with dirt and leaves.  

Almost ten years later, seven daffodils bloom, right where they were planted.  For its part, the dogwood should soon unfold into delicate white flowers. 

 ~  

Some days, when the migraines are bad, I yearn to empty myself of the pain. Tear the pain out by  the roots. Hollow out my head, empty it completely.  

~ 

Does my head hurt now because I never keened at the funeral, wailing for all the world to see?  Because I refrained from hurling myself on Franny’s coffin, collapsing onto his grave? Because I  restrained myself from screaming like a madwoman—No, you can’t take him away from me—  Instead, I held my body back. I held still.  

~  

“You barely have any tears,” says the ophthalmologist, a petite woman in her early thirties.  “Usually, we have about one or two milligrams of tears on the inside of the bottom eyelid— pooling there to give comfort to the cornea.”  

Her voice is kind.  

Lately, my eyes have felt irritated and dry, as if they’re coated with grit. The doctor and I  discuss options, eventually settling on collagen plugs: she’ll drop a numbing agent into my eye,  then insert a tiny collagen plug into each of my tear ducts with forceps. She tells me it takes  seconds, and won’t hurt a bit. The plug will keep the few tears I have from draining away  completely.  

A few nights later, I wake to a tear-soaked pillow, reaching for Franny across the bed. 

 ~  

Hundreds of people filled the church.  

I couldn’t draw a breath. I sat frozen in the pew, barely breathing, staring straight ahead.  My neck like granite, shoulders hard as a rock. The bagpipe player struck up a rendition of  Amazing Grace, filling every nook and cranny of the church—nave, side chapel, aisles, vaulted  ceilings. Franny’s nephews carried his coffin down the aisle, bringing it to rest by my side. I reached out, placing my hand on it. I wanted to never take it away—but at some point, worried  about what other people thought, I moved it to my lap, where it lay, heavy as a stone. 

 ~  

There is a grinding grit to loss.  

~  

As a twelve-year-old, I spent hours in our cavernous basement with my best friend. We loaded a  rock tumbler with raw, ragged rocks, listening to them clatter and rattle as the barrel turned,  every now and then adding water, and grit, waiting for them to transform from dull and rough  into sleek, shiny jewels. We couldn’t get enough; every time we emptied the polished rocks from  the tumbler, we filled it right back up with raw materials.  

The kit came with bits of rose quartz and agate, but we burned through those right away.  So we scoured the driveway, gathering whatever rocks we could find. Over and over, we tumbled  rocks with grit, polishing, turning straw-into-gold, until my mother had to pry us away from our  obsession, calling from the top of the stairs, “Girls, come on up. It’s time for dinner.” 

~  

One evening, I have dinner with a friend, when I find I’m unable to swallow. A bit of food gets  caught in the back of my throat, and stays there. I’m not choking; I just can’t swallow, try as I  might. The muscles in my throat feel weak, inadequate to the task. I’m only able to get the food  down with a gulp of water.  

And so, the tests begin. A barium swallow test, followed by some kind of neurological  test. I have no idea what this test is called, and feel too tired to ask. All I can think, lying in  darkness for a full hour, a needle sticking out of my forearm is: If Franny were here, he’d ask all the right questions—the name of the test, the justification for it, a clear explanation of results—if  Franny were here, he’d run defense for me. And then I think, It makes no sense that he isn’t here.  How can he not be here? How could this happen to Franny? How could this happen to me? 

Everything feels unreal.  

I can’t swallow food. The truth of Franny’s death is impossible to swallow.  ~  

April 22, 2014  

2:35 a.m.  

From sleeping, to sitting bolt upright in one instant.  

Wide awake, heart racing, emptied of breath.  

I rush to Franny’s side of the bed.  

He’s not breathing. His chest isn’t moving.  

Nothing is moving.  

Did the silence wake me?  

Did the not-moving wake me?  

I run to the laundry closet, grab my stethoscope, race back, and listen for a heartbeat.  Listen again. Move the stethoscope over every inch of his chest.  

Nothing.  

The room fills with emptiness  

I tumble into the chair.  

~ 

Two young undertakers wait outside the bedroom door. I kneel beside the bed where Franny lies  on his back, rest my head on his stomach, stretching my arms out, wide—one hand touching his  forehead, the other his feet.  

I have all of him for another minute.  

~  

Nowadays, I resist falling asleep. I watch Netflix, read the news, stare at the ceiling, until finally  I force myself to turn off the bedside lamp. I toss, turn, and tumble under the bedcovers, listening to  my little dog, Bear, snore, until I finally fall into sleep.  

It’s not a graceful, easy fall; it’s more like I’m tumbling into darkness.  

~  

I wasn’t awake when Franny died.  

I didn’t say thank you in his last moment.  

I didn’t say I love you as he died.  

I didn’t hold his hand,  

Touch his chest.  

I didn’t offer comfort during those last seconds.  

Was he scared?  

I didn’t see him take his last breath.  

It takes me weeks, months, to believe Franny actually died.  

~  

The results of the test are in: I have Myasthenia Gravis; my own antibodies are attacking me,  weakening my esophagus muscles. So long as I take a certain medicine three times a day, the doctor says I’ll be fine. “Gravis,” though feels ominous. It’s a Latin word meaning heavy or  weighted. Aggravate, grief, grave, and gravity are english derivatives. The doctor can be light hearted, optimistic about it, but in me, the diagnosis, the word gravis lands with a thud. And a question: Does grief strip away everything?  

~  

The oak tree in the back corner of the yard is giant and old, several stories taller than the houses  that surround it. During thunderstorms, branches flail, leaves give way, wind rips limbs from the  trunk. I watch the destruction from the bedroom window, surveying the shattered remains of  branches on the ground.  

In quieter moments, I study the tree, poring over its roots. How deep and wide do they  go? Are they strong enough to anchor the tree as it continues to grow? Do I need to prune it?  What do I need to do to keep the oak safe from all the storms to come?  

~  

The summer before we wed, Franny and I traveled to Tuscany, Italy. One afternoon we drove  through the Tuscan hills, past farmhouses and lush vineyards, to the Abbazia di Sant’Antimo.  The twelfth century structure of stone and alabaster is beautiful in its austerity. It stands alone in  a valley, surrounded by fields of wheat and olive groves. Benedictine monks gather seven times a  day to chant and pray.  

We sat on wooden benches in the nave, letting the Gregorian chants of the midday mass  fill us. When it was done, we lingered, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to break the spell. The  chanting had both filled us and stilled us. As we walked outside beneath olive and cypress trees,  Franny said, “That was one of the most moving experiences I’ve ever had.” 

And he took my hand in his.  

~  

Nine years after Franny’s death, I stand at the edge of a small pond surrounded by cattails. Two  swans swim toward one another, wrapping their necks in an embrace.  

Three baby cygnets trail them, not far behind.  

I watch the swans glide across the pond’s surface, plunging underwater, tails to the sky,  foraging for algae and pondweed. It’s an obvious metaphor but I’ve thought of it so often, I can’t  help but dredge it up again—swans let themselves tumble face down into the water, drawn to the  depths, where they scour the mud and silt in search of nourishment.  

~  

“You’re the most courageous person I know,” Franny often said to me.  

“Why do you say that?” I’d ask.  

I asked him many times, but he never gave me a reason.  

“You just are.” he’d say with a soft smile. “Trust me.”  

 ~

I stand in Franny’s beloved garden, Bear takes his evening run. The autumn wind brushes my  cheeks; winter’s coming. Franny’s favorite season. Zinnias and dahlias are curling in on  themselves. I’ll leave them be, so the birds can fatten on their seeds. 

Rachel Walton holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Carlow University, where she assists with Carlow’s annual MFA residencies in Pittsburgh and Ireland. She has worked as a nurse in pediatrics, women’s health, and hospice. Her essays have appeared in wildness, Chicago Story Press, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and The Write Launch.