Love Poems of Life

The summer of 1991, I am hired to take care of Lowell. Barbara, his wife of only one year, asks me to also cook. There is a steady stream of visitors which Lowell delights in. His best friend is Bob, a writer and sociologist, visiting often. After dinner, everyone enjoys listening to Bob as he reads out loud from his writing-in-progress about his Jewish family and upbringing in Chicago. Balmy evenings. Lowell’s progressing bladder cancer. He and I have a secret code when things need to calm down: doucement – gently. Three weeks later, the hospital bed arrives, making things a little easier. Lowell needs stronger painkillers. Together we discern who is “comfortable” visiting their bedridden friend, now by looking gaunt. I am laser focused on Lowell’s well-being, all else is just part of the colorful, at times thorny, setting. To me new, unknown. Doucement.

The home is light filled, birds chirping outside the window, a warm breeze. On this quiet Sunday afternoon, Bob is the only visitor. After a little while, Lowell invites him into his bed, grinning at me, fishing for approval. Folding laundry nearby, I nod lightly, smiling at the childlike joy that is flooding him. When Bob joins him a little awkwardly, we all start giggling. Lowell asks me to participate. Will we fit? Nimbly I climb in, and all three of us laugh with even more delight. Lowell in the middle – how good can life get? He is dying of bladder cancer, so in my opinion anything goes. Death is nearby. Life is even closer still, and three grown-ups squeezed into the narrow hospital bed is, yes, as fine as it gets. The party goes on happily for a while.

Then suddenly, the door is thrown open and Barbara bursts upon us – expressing her anger and disapproval sharply. Not able to accept that Lowell will be gone sometime very soon. The grace period turns out to be three weeks. As the paid caretaker, I jump up guiltily, while Bob gets out of bed at a dignified pace. All three of us are still laughing, but now below our breath, like little children. Danger has come upon the world, upon us. We are helpless. Too much love squeezed into a narrow hospital bed. But it was worth it. All of us have been caught in a poignant situation, at a crucial moment – even Barbara, the grieving wife. Pain. Punishment. Death is nearby. Life is even closer. Still playful, still giggling. Lowell dies on September 6, at age 56. My role as caregiver and cook is over. After Lowell’s memorial, I allow myself to fall in love with Bob who has been all along wooing me quietly. That long ago afternoon – Lowell blessed us in his lucid ways. With a love poem enacted in a hospital bed, in a sunny home. Late summer of 1991 – etched deep.

Bob, too, dies at home, in his bed. Like Lowell. But much older, at age 87. After 25 years of our life together. After years and months of my role again as sole caregiver, cook, friend, protector. I love caring for Bob at home, alone. It feels utterly meaningful.  Sometimes I am angry, exhausted, furious, overwhelmed, sometimes deeply sad, aching, but increasingly entwined with Bob. Often, I laugh, especially when it gets dicey, accidents happening. Bob keeps saying: “why are you laughing?” He is not upset, rather openly curious. Still laughing, I reply “what else can I do?” Now he, too, chuckles a bit. Helplessness, in the room, in the bed. Sweetness of life, of love. Part of the hard work of dying. Saying good bye. This is how it begins and how it ends. With love and care. And always sprinkled with moments of pain. However, what we remember is the love, eyes smiling with mystery, vulnerable tender love gently giggling… doucement….

Our love poems – are they not always odes to life? About being in love with life, in awe of life? Life writes them to us, or for us. They are composed every day, even in disasters, and perhaps with burning intensity in calamity and war times. Love for life is irrepressible. Our sanctuary or refuge. Since childhood, sitting down to write, soon I will taste sweetness on my tongue, breath expands. The world becomes safe. Das Brot des Lebens nennt sich Liebe. The bread of life is called love.

 

Dear, Dearest, my most beloved…

a raw flame my love for you

purple intensity against the night sky

with tender edges opening their palm

steady silent ever changing

you lift eyelids the owl flies by…

das Brot des Lebens nennt sich Liebe.

 

Karina Epperlein, Dec 23, 1991

To Bob Blauner (May 18, 1929 – October 20, 2016)

 

Three months after Lowell’s death, one of my cards to Bob, crinkled and faded by now….

Tomorrow on October 20, my remembrance infused with the above love stories 

nine years later – precious fruit of life

 

What has life been writing to you?