34 Years

This week I celebrated my 34th wedding anniversary, to a girl I met in high school.  She was not my high school sweetheart, although I loved her madly from afar from the first moment I saw her.  She did become my friend while at school, and years later, we started dating.  It took us until we were 31 years old, but we were finally married.

One of the hardest things I ever had to do happened a couple of years ago, at a choir recital we called "Music for the Soul" based on the writings of Robert Fulghum.  My health over the years has taken a lot from me.  I have trouble walking.  I suffer from neurological disorders that cause pain in my arms and legs, which can be acute at times.  Once upon a time I was a working actor with the various skills you might think an actor should have in their toolbox.  Now all I have left is a decent speaking voice.  My choir director generously called me the James Earl Jones of the chorus.  Whenever we needed to incorporate a reading into a performance, I was usually called upon to deliver it. 

The hard thing I mentioned was reading this excerpt by Fulghum about the actor, Charles Boyer, who is pictured above.  It was almost impossible for me to get through the piece, because it describes perfectly exactly how I feel about the woman I married 34 years ago.  This was it:

"This is kind of personal.  It may get a little syrupy, so watch out.  It started as a note to my wife.  And then I thought that since some of you might have husbands or wives (or life partners) and might feel the same way, I’d pass it along.  I don’t own this story, anyway.  Charles Boyer does.

"Remember Charles Boyer?  Suave, dapper, handsome, graceful.  Lover of the most famous and beautiful ladies of the silver screen.  That was on camera and in the fan magazines.  In real life it was different.

"There was only one woman.  For forty-four years. His wife, Patricia.  Friends said it was a lifelong love affair. They were no less lovers and friends and companions after forty-four years than after the first year.

"Then Patricia developed cancer of the liver.  And though the doctors told Charles, he could not bear to tell her.  And so he sat by her bedside to provide hope and cheer.  Day and night for six months.  He could not change the inevitable.  Nobody could.  And Patricia died in his arms.  Two days later Charles Boyer was also dead.  By his own hand.  He said he did not want to live without her.  He said, 'Her love was life to me.'

"This was no movie. As I said, it’s the real story—Charles Boyer’s story.

"It’s not for me to pass judgment on how he handled his grief.  But it is for me to say that I am touched and comforted in a strange way.  Touched by the depth of love behind the apparent sham of Hollywood love life.  Comforted to know that two people can love each other that much, that long.

"I don’t know how I would handle my grief in similar circumstances.  I pray I shall never have to stand in his shoes. (Here comes the personal part—no apologies.)  But there are moments when I look across the room—amid the daily ordinariness of life—and see the person I call my wife and friend and companion. And I understand why Charles Boyer did what he did.  It really is possible to love someone that much.  I know.  I’m certain of it."

And I do know.  And I am certain of it.  I used to say, the heck with Romeo and Juliet; I want a love like Gomez and Morticia.  I got even luckier than that, though.  I have a love like Charles and Patricia.

Happy anniversary, sweetheart.