Two Roads

We had a  bedside visit today, and Margie told me, illustrating with her expressive hands, “I’m walking on two roads at the same time. I’m doing my best to be able to walk again,” waving her left hand, “so if I have to keep on going, I can do it on my own two feet without somebody else having to take me to the toilet. But I’m also” waving her right hand, “walking on the road that says, ‘I’m done here.’ Because I am.”

I nodded and assured her she has every right to feel that way. 

“You don’t think it’s shameful, that second road? You don’t think it’s cowardly?”

No, I said, you’re not a coward, Margie. This is hard.

“Yes,” she said, with energy, “it is hard. And I’m tired.”

We held hands quietly for a while, and then I asked her to tell me again about Uncle Herman and Aunt Mildred. Her eyes brightened, she broke into a huge smile, told me about riding the train out to Bayshore, Long Island, to stay with them in the summers. “Those were such happy times,” she grinned. “Aunt Mildred wasn’t Jewish, so of course there was some disapproval of Uncle Herman for marrying her. My parents would be speaking Yiddish because they didn’t want me to understand, but I would hear ‘shiksa’ and I would know they were talking about Aunt Mildred, and I would get excited because I knew they were talking about when to send me out to stay with her and Uncle Herman. I started going there every summer when I was about four, and I kept going till I was maybe eleven and went to my first summer camp. I’ve had a beautiful life. I’ve been so lucky.”