A Woman Like Me
by Leslea Newman
APRIL 26, 2008 TAGS:
By Lesléa Newman
Every Sunday morning I search for her.
On the one day of the week when I could actually let myself sleep late, I rise with the sun, leaving my spouse and cat snuggled in our warm, cozy bed while I quietly slip on my bathrobe and creep down the stairs. Without flicking on the light, I brew a pot of hazelnut coffee and put two chocolate-covered Biscotti biscuits on a plate. Then I open the kitchen door, cringing as always at the squeak its hinges make, and slink down the driveway to fetch the newspaper, hoping that none of my neighbors is up early enough to catch sight of me with my unwashed face and unkempt hair, wrapped in my ratty robe.
Back inside, I open the window shades, pour myself some coffee and spread the paper across the kitchen table, casting aside the Book Review, the Magazine, and the Sports, Travel, and Arts sections. I will not find her there. She will be, if I’m lucky, where she is always is, on the next-to-last page of the first section of the Sunday New York Times.
I drench a Biscotti with coffee, take a soggy bite, and consider my options as I stare at the death notices, which of course run alphabetically. I don’t know her name so I’m not sure where to start. Should I begin with the A’s and read down the page? Or skip to the end of the alphabet and work my way backwards? Sometimes I start with the notices that are accompanied by photographs. Other times I plunge in wherever my eye lands. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. What matters is that this week, like every week for the past seven years or so, I find her there. A woman who is “survived by several nieces and nephews” or a woman who will be “missed by many dear friends.” In other words, a woman who had no children. Which is to say, a woman like me.
I don’t know when this ritual started exactly, but it was about the time that I hit my mid-40s and my biological clock ticked its last tock. In a way, I never really made the decision not to have children; I just never made the decision to have them. Not to decide is to decide, as Abe Lincoln said, though I don’t think he was talking about whether or not to become a parent. Being a non-mother, or an unmother — there isn’t even a word to describe what I am — never bothered me until I hit the point of no return. Now, having passed the mid-century mark, a decision, whether conscious, sub-conscious, or simply by default, has been made. And to be honest, the only thing that bothers me about this is that I will have no offspring to care for me in my old age. And since my spouse is 12 years older than I am, there is a good possibility that in the end I will have to fend for myself.
I am not really afraid of death, but I am really afraid of dying. We all wind up dead after all, so logically it makes no sense to fear the inevitable. What is frightening is the prelude to eternity. Will I suffer? Will I become helpless and undignified? Will there be anyone at my bedside to pat my hand and tell me to look towards the light?
I don’t like to think about these things, so I finish my breakfast and turn back to the paper, seeking comfort in the form of death notice of a childless (child-free?) woman I have never met. Each Sunday that I find her feels like a victory. If another barren woman can live a New York Times-worthy life, with someone around at the end who cared enough to put notice of her death in the newspaper, then I have a chance, too. My eyes scan the page to no avail. “Dearly beloved mother of…” “Survived by her two cherished daughters…” I make my way down the page until there is only one more obit to go. I almost don’t want to read it. Will this week finally be the week that I’ve been dreading for years?
And what would happen if I didn’t find her this week? My life wouldn’t end or even change in the least. I would still finish my coffee, and with any luck complete the crossword puzzle, and then get on with my day. And yet I know without the reassurance of finding a woman like me in the paper, the rest of the week will be tinged with a feeling of defeat, until next Sunday arrives and I’m given another chance.
Taking a deep breath, I turn to the final death notice which is nine column inches long and about Dorothy Warren, a fifth-generation New Yorker, author, photographer, lecturer, realtor, travel agent, and unbeknownst to her, my kindred spirit of the week. Her death notice bears no mention of any children. She is survived only by her cousins, and on top of that, lived to be 103. Oh, how I adore her!
My triumph does not last long, however. Later that day, driving into town for groceries, I find myself behind a car with a bumper sticker that reads,” Be nice to your children. Someday they’ll choose your nursing home.” My stomach clutches. Who will choose my nursing home? Who chose Dorothy Warren’s?
When I speak of these matters to a friend who is also married-without-children, she reminds me that being a parent is no guarantee one will be taken care of during one’s dotage and demise, and I know that she’s right. I think about an aunt of mine who just turned 90, is growing frail, and has two sons. One son is mentally ill and she does not hear from him for years at a time. The other son is a brilliant doctor who hasn’t spoken to her in more than a decade because … well, she’s not quite sure why. Often I see homeless women on the street and wonder where their children are.
I wish I could call Dorothy Warren and ask her what her final days were like. Though she never had a son or daughter, at the end of her life she did have someone around to take care of her (after all, nobody lives to be 103 without a little help). I don’t know if I’ll make it to 103 or even 53, but I do know that irrational as it seems, as long as I keep finding women like Dorothy Warren in the Sunday paper, I’ll be able to hold onto the hope that I won’t die alone.
Lesléa Newman is the author of 50 books. Visit www.lesleanewman.com to learn more about her work.
Lesléa Newman, the poet laureate of Northampton, Ma., writes frequently for Obit.
Every Sunday morning I search for her.
On the one day of the week when I could actually let myself sleep late, I rise with the sun, leaving my spouse and cat snuggled in our warm, cozy bed while I quietly slip on my bathrobe and creep down the stairs. Without flicking on the light, I brew a pot of hazelnut coffee and put two chocolate-covered Biscotti biscuits on a plate. Then I open the kitchen door, cringing as always at the squeak its hinges make, and slink down the driveway to fetch the newspaper, hoping that none of my neighbors is up early enough to catch sight of me with my unwashed face and unkempt hair, wrapped in my ratty robe.
Back inside, I open the window shades, pour myself some coffee and spread the paper across the kitchen table, casting aside the Book Review, the Magazine, and the Sports, Travel, and Arts sections. I will not find her there. She will be, if I’m lucky, where she is always is, on the next-to-last page of the first section of the Sunday New York Times.
I drench a Biscotti with coffee, take a soggy bite, and consider my options as I stare at the death notices, which of course run alphabetically. I don’t know her name so I’m not sure where to start. Should I begin with the A’s and read down the page? Or skip to the end of the alphabet and work my way backwards? Sometimes I start with the notices that are accompanied by photographs. Other times I plunge in wherever my eye lands. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. What matters is that this week, like every week for the past seven years or so, I find her there. A woman who is “survived by several nieces and nephews” or a woman who will be “missed by many dear friends.” In other words, a woman who had no children. Which is to say, a woman like me.
I don’t know when this ritual started exactly, but it was about the time that I hit my mid-40s and my biological clock ticked its last tock. In a way, I never really made the decision not to have children; I just never made the decision to have them. Not to decide is to decide, as Abe Lincoln said, though I don’t think he was talking about whether or not to become a parent. Being a non-mother, or an unmother — there isn’t even a word to describe what I am — never bothered me until I hit the point of no return. Now, having passed the mid-century mark, a decision, whether conscious, sub-conscious, or simply by default, has been made. And to be honest, the only thing that bothers me about this is that I will have no offspring to care for me in my old age. And since my spouse is 12 years older than I am, there is a good possibility that in the end I will have to fend for myself.
I am not really afraid of death, but I am really afraid of dying. We all wind up dead after all, so logically it makes no sense to fear the inevitable. What is frightening is the prelude to eternity. Will I suffer? Will I become helpless and undignified? Will there be anyone at my bedside to pat my hand and tell me to look towards the light?
I don’t like to think about these things, so I finish my breakfast and turn back to the paper, seeking comfort in the form of death notice of a childless (child-free?) woman I have never met. Each Sunday that I find her feels like a victory. If another barren woman can live a New York Times-worthy life, with someone around at the end who cared enough to put notice of her death in the newspaper, then I have a chance, too. My eyes scan the page to no avail. “Dearly beloved mother of…” “Survived by her two cherished daughters…” I make my way down the page until there is only one more obit to go. I almost don’t want to read it. Will this week finally be the week that I’ve been dreading for years?
And what would happen if I didn’t find her this week? My life wouldn’t end or even change in the least. I would still finish my coffee, and with any luck complete the crossword puzzle, and then get on with my day. And yet I know without the reassurance of finding a woman like me in the paper, the rest of the week will be tinged with a feeling of defeat, until next Sunday arrives and I’m given another chance.
Taking a deep breath, I turn to the final death notice which is nine column inches long and about Dorothy Warren, a fifth-generation New Yorker, author, photographer, lecturer, realtor, travel agent, and unbeknownst to her, my kindred spirit of the week. Her death notice bears no mention of any children. She is survived only by her cousins, and on top of that, lived to be 103. Oh, how I adore her!
My triumph does not last long, however. Later that day, driving into town for groceries, I find myself behind a car with a bumper sticker that reads,” Be nice to your children. Someday they’ll choose your nursing home.” My stomach clutches. Who will choose my nursing home? Who chose Dorothy Warren’s?
When I speak of these matters to a friend who is also married-without-children, she reminds me that being a parent is no guarantee one will be taken care of during one’s dotage and demise, and I know that she’s right. I think about an aunt of mine who just turned 90, is growing frail, and has two sons. One son is mentally ill and she does not hear from him for years at a time. The other son is a brilliant doctor who hasn’t spoken to her in more than a decade because … well, she’s not quite sure why. Often I see homeless women on the street and wonder where their children are.
I wish I could call Dorothy Warren and ask her what her final days were like. Though she never had a son or daughter, at the end of her life she did have someone around to take care of her (after all, nobody lives to be 103 without a little help). I don’t know if I’ll make it to 103 or even 53, but I do know that irrational as it seems, as long as I keep finding women like Dorothy Warren in the Sunday paper, I’ll be able to hold onto the hope that I won’t die alone.
Lesléa Newman is the author of 50 books. Visit www.lesleanewman.com to learn more about her work.
Lesléa Newman, the poet laureate of Northampton, Ma., writes frequently for Obit.
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