March 2007, California and Connecticut

By M. Elizabeth Cooper

“Ri,” my grandpa sobbed to me, “I miss her so much. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

Jim, my Poppy, is not typically an emotional man, and even though we were miles apart, the sadness in his voice instantly brought tears to my eyes.

The “her” that Poppy spoke of was my grandma, Ellen, or “Chica,” as I had been calling her for years. It was a very difficult situation for me, trying to comfort my disheartened grandpa over the phone, who was not only crying but on the other side of the country. But as challenging as this one sliver of time was for me, I could only imagine how hard it must be for him.

My grandparents have been married for 60 years, a long time by anyone’s standards. Sixty years of waking side by side, falling into a daily routine and ending the day entwined in each other’s arms. And what’s more, in those 60 years, they had never spent a single day apart

Together, they share a history as long and as detailed as an intricately woven tapestry, decorated with various patterns that represent laughter and tears; hurt and forgiveness; hardship and joy.

In their daily life for 60 years, they epitomized their marriage vows — to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part — and they were lucky in the strength of their love and the stability of their health. So it came as no shock that when Chica became ill earlier this year, Poppy became a shadow of his former self. He began to lose himself, and as her condition worsened he fell further away from his own identity and clung desperately to the image of her that he had fallen in love with so many years ago — an image that unbeknownst to him, was quickly fading into
oblivion.

My grandparents’ unconventional courtship began during World War II. Like so many other wartime Rosies, Chica worked in a factory doing her part on the homefront, while Poppy was the lieutenant of a mortar battalion, earning accolades, respect, and a Purple Heart in the South Pacific. His sister and her sister-in-law, co-workers at the same factory and part-time matchmakers, decided that they would be perfect for each other. After some gentle prodding from both women, my grandparents soon began corresponding. Their letters were cordial and polite, slightly awkward yet at the same time filled with enough hopes and dreams to bridge the many miles that separated them.

For two years, they put pen to paper and dedicated themselves to each other without the spoken exchange of words or a face-to-face encounter. The most one had from the other was a photo. On special occasions, Poppy sent orchids to Chica, which she not only cherished but pressed and saved among her most prized possessions. As the end of the war neared, she awaited his return to Connecticut like a child on Christmas Eve eagerly anticipating a visit from Santa, and just like that same child who gets everything she wants on Christmas morning, she was both elated and satisfied when the wait was over.

It was not long after his return that Poppy and Chica were married, and while their union brought two very large Italian-American families together, they were still able to carve out a niche for themselves among the group. My grandparents set out building a life together. My grandpa, the first in his family to graduate from college, became a pharmacist, while my grandma dedicated herself to homemaking and being a mother to their daughter, Ellen, my mother.

Poppy was so accustomed to the way of life that they had established that he was blindsided by Chica’s illness. Whether he was in denial or he didn’t fully comprehend, the severity of my grandma’s situation was lost on him. After all, how could he be expected to understand when even the doctors were baffled? Her body had been ravaged, her spirit traumatized, and whether he liked it or not there was little semblance of the woman he fell in love with and married.

As I sat on the other end of the phone, I felt helpless. Here was my grandpa, a man I had adored and looked up to since childhood, searching for guidance, reassurance, and above all strength from me, and I was useless to him. I wanted to say something profound or at least comforting, but the best I could muster was a feeble attempt at cheering him up.

“Poppy,” I said hoping that my voice wouldn’t falter and he wouldn’t hear the tears I was desperately trying to choke back, “you have to be strong for her and send positive thoughts her way. Let her know how much you care even though you can’t see her or speak with her.”

When we finished our conversation, I replayed it in my mind for days, dwelling on my fruitless and inadequate words, and hoping to think of the right words to provide him with the solace he so eagerly sought. I would soon discover that without even knowing it, I said something that no only struck a chord in my Poppy, but also prompted him to act.

Several days after I spoke with my grandpa, I received an emotional phone call from my mom detailing the scenario she came upon earlier in the day. She went to check on Poppy as she did every day, but instead of his usual spot in the recliner watching TV, she found him hunched over the kitchen table, pouring his heart into a letter for Chica.

She stood in the doorway and watched as he struggled to convey his feelings with the odds stacked against him. His poor eyesight, stiff hands, and slow-functioning thoughts hampered his efforts, and he had to stop writing often to wipe the tears from his eyes. Despite these challenges he proudly reread his well-chosen words, folded the pages neatly, and sealed them in an envelope. Handing the envelope to my mom, he asked her to deliver it to his lady.

Poppy was lost without her. The only thing that he knew unequivocally was that he loved her, and it was his love that triggered a knee-jerk reaction, bringing him more than 60 years into the past to the time when he was courting his new love. They were separated now just as they had been at the beginning of their relationship, but instead of war the insurmountable obstacle was illness, which was just as unforeseen and unpredictable. And so he relied on the skill that had served him so well in the past when they could not speak or see each other.

He was compelled to express the measure of their milestones together the only way he knew how — by writing to his lifelong sweetheart, a woman who would forever be his girl, even as she was gradually slipping away.

M. Elizabeth Cooper, a freelance writer and editor, lives in Los Angeles, California, with her husband. She loves good films, good music, good books, and great wine.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, April 23rd, 2007 | Email This Post

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