NEW: QUEER Viewpoint ― Happy 50th Anniversary My Dear Husband―January 10
Even though it has been ten years since he passed, I continue to mourn and to remember.
Taken by dear friend Patricia Anderson
Last night, thinking about dear friend John playing the piano on one of his visits to Gregory at Lieberman Memory Care Center instantly brought tears to my eyes.
As he played, residents slowly made their way to the living room and settled in. Such a small gesture brought so many people a moment of happiness.
Gregory especially enjoyed the music because he had played the piano at a concert level before that cognitive ability left him, and he and John used to work together on new pieces.
“Michael,” said Gregory, “I don’t expect you to change, just be there for me.”
“I am here for you,” I would tell Gregory. He would reply, “That is enough and love.”
Even though I sometimes think I’ve dealt with and put to rest the pain of the twelve years walking alongside my husband and his decline, or come to peace with it, I get glimpses of just how painful it was to experience that from my side of the proverbial fence.
Those times will always be etched, carved, burned into my experience. However, how could I really ever let them go? I can learn to sit with them. I can learn to accept them. I can learn to understand them. I guess I always will need to hold onto them; that’s what love is all about, that’s what grief is all about.
That is what life is all about. Great love brings great grief, and the hole that it leaves in one’s life can never really be healed. It does get a little easier to carry, and it does become a little less overwhelming emotionally. But that is easy to say until the memories of our ordeal, even ten years later, once again unexpectedly rear their ugly heads.
When Gregory died, he became finite. His life, as we know life, stopped. The good part was that his Alzheimer’s disease stopped as well. No more problems, no more confusion, no more fears. No more loss of abilities. No more being totally dependent on others.
My life continues on, so I am infinite, at least until it is my turn to join him on the other side. I continue to grow, to experience, to change, to become more. I have become a much “bigger” person in many ways in the ten years since Gregory died. So it is obvious that the grief should be easier to carry, if not different, because I am no longer the person I was.
But that doesn’t mean that his life and his death mean less or that I no longer think about him, about us. In one of my earlier writings here on Substack, a fellow writer commented that it was amazing how strongly I continued to hold Gregory in my heart and in my life, and what a testament that was to our love, to our relationship.
Actually, the comment surprised me, if only because I am not sure how it could have been any different for me. For some, maybe. But for me, I just continued on as who I was, and I could no more easily have walked away from the memories of our 41 years together, our growth together, our daily life together, our vacations together, our pets together, our home together, etc., as I could have deserted him as a care partner during the 12 difficult ones together. Some would have. Not me!
In the traditional marriage ceremony, the person who officiates asks, “Will you love, honor, and support; in good times and in bad times; until death do you part?” I have decided that this is not true. Loving, honoring, and supporting your person continues after death. In a truly loving relationship, it never ends.
That is probably why I am thinking about and writing about these things currently, as we approach the anniversary of our meeting, January 10th, which we also consider the anniversary of our one-year-later commitment to each other … before same-sex marriage was legal in the U.S.
On January 10, 2026, Gregory and I will have been married to each other in a committed, loving, respectful relationship for 50 years. Happy Anniversary, my hon! I miss your physical presence but value the many other ways our love continues to flourish.