What my former husband’s death has reminded me about reaching out and grabbing life | Opinion

The man to whom I was married for 46 years died last Saturday, April 20.

Not unexpectedly, for sure. There had been months of declining mental and physical well-being.

I thought there were no emotions left untended in that relationship. We were married for 46 years. We were divorced 12 years ago.

I have relished my single-hood. While the divorce was in process, I moved to the Oregon Coast. And oh my, I loved being there — in a charming little cottage in a quaint ocean side village right across the street from the ocean. My little dog, Buddy, and I walked Gleneden Beach for miles every morning. I found myriad ways to participate in every interesting aspect of Depoe Bay life. I was happy.

Opinion

Then, at the urging of my younger son, I entertained the possibility of moving to Modesto — the town (now a city!) where I was born. The place where my family was just waiting for me to be a part of their boisterous and sometimes chaotic culture of happy involvement in the ordinary — and sometimes very extraordinary — events that make up the best possible life.

I love being here. If you’ve read previous columns, you know that.

This is a dream come true. Family. Friends. Job. Symphony. Live theater. Good food. An amazing new independent bookstore. A cheerfully helpful library system. And oh my goodness, writing for my daily McClatchy newspaper, The Modesto Bee!

I love living alone, reading my own books, being my own boss, decorating exactly as I want, planting exactly what I want and watching beautiful things happen all around me.

And yet, I am sadder than I ever expected to be upon the passing of the man with whom I was in a very challenging relationship for all those years. Doug and I shared many important values: religion, morals, parenting. But we were diametrically opposite on every question regarding money. And, ultimately, that was our undoing. Neither one of us shed a tear when I filed for divorce. Why, then, this profound sadness now?

In “The Bell Jar,” Sylvia Plath writes: “I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree.

“From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet, and another fig was a brilliant professor … and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America … and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.

“I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

A beautifully crafted description of the choices we all are required to make at many points in our lives. Will we starve to death in the presence of plenty? Or will we reach out and grab life?

I chose the life I vowed to be faithful to “til death do us part” on October 24, 1965. Somehow, though, I did not have to give up all the rest. I want you to know that no figs wrinkled, went black and fell at my feet. I chose Doug to be my husband, and I chose Douglas and Jason, our sons. And with great joy and enthusiasm, I tucked all my other “figs” in around the edges while I raised two remarkable people who participated readily in whatever possibility presented itself at any given moment.

From my point of view, at 82 years of age, I did it all. The New Testament says something about “running the good race,” and it talks especially about finishing. I want more, of course, but if my life were to end at this moment, I would know I’ve finished the very good race set before me.

Then why the sadness?

Perhaps this is why the sadness: Maybe we choose a fig, and it is beautiful. It promises juicy goodness. We can already feel the soft flesh between our teeth and the sticky sweetness as the juice finds its way down our chin.

So, we bite.

And for all the promises the fig makes — its beautiful fatness, its potential juiciness — it does not deliver. It is bitter and dry. It dispassionately ignores our hunger and proudly stays bitter and unnourishing. We may put effort into “fixing” the fig. Add some sugar? Cut it up and cook it? Add it to a recipe? Yet, still, the fig we have chosen remains exactly what it was created to be: beautiful on the outside, but bitter and unappetizing when tested.

I put so much effort into trying to “fix” a marriage that was just never going to be more than what it was destined to be: a little bitter, somewhat unappetizing and, except for our shared joy in Douglas and Jason, largely joyless.

But this was the fig I chose. And doggonit I was going to find a way to turn this fig into what I wanted it to be.

And you know what? It just did not work.

But, here’s what I got for my effort: two wonderful boys; a house we bought in Prunedale in 1965 and stayed in (eventually reconstructing it) for all of those 46 years; friends for a lifetime; avenues of service that enabled me to have a huge impact on my community; parties and weddings in our backyard for upwards of 100 guests; and the inimitable joy of watching two young men evolve from those little boys to standing on their own two feet and becoming amazing adults full of love and goodness — right before my wondering eyes.

And Doug was a part of all of that.

So, was my fig less than it was meant to be?

No, it was not. To my surprise, my fig sprouted, flowered and brought forth fruit of its own. Sylvia Plath did not have the good fortune to see this happen in her life. I have seen it in mine.

And that is why the sadness, I think. Douglas and Jason cleaned out their dad’s house a few days ago, and Jason brought me things they knew I would want. The little red wooden Playskool wagon, our wedding China, the Six Flags hat three-year-old Douglas wore until it was threadbare. And the photo album from 1965 to 1970, encompassing the years they were born.

Touching each of those mementos of a life well-lived transported me to places and times when we were a family of four. Now, perhaps, I understand that the sadness only speaks well of the good things Doug and I shared despite our differences.

So, the fig I chose had a mind of its own. Maybe the sadness is occasioned by the fact that what I received was so much more than I could ever have imagined: I looked at my fig and sometimes saw less. Meanwhile, my stubborn, mind-of-its-own fig was busy giving me more.

Bunny Stevens lives in Modesto, her hometown, and has served on The Modesto Bee Community Advisory Board. She is the opening courtesy clerk at the Safeway supermarket on McHenry Avenue and an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. She has also been known to represent the Easter Bunny and Santa’s Elf for children of all ages. Reach her at BunnyinModesto@gmail.com