If I Could Tell Him: A Widow’s Lament

A few weeks after my beloved husband died, my daughters and I saw one of the very first runs of the Tony-winning musical Dear Evan Hansen back when it was in beta mode at the Arena Stage in D.C. I’ll always remember that show fondly because the exquisite score and my girls’ rapture (they’ve since seen the show at least five times) penetrated the blackness of my grief and gave me hope, if only for a few moments that I might someday again feel joy.

One of the songs in particular, If I Could Tell Her, stuck with me. In it, Evan, responding to a question from his crush about what her dead brother thought about her, Evan instead shares all of the little and unique things that he loved about his crush but was afraid to say. I’m reminded of that song — or at least, the title — today, which marks the third anniversary of the last conversation that I had with my husband when he was 100 percent himself, before the brain cancer addled his beautiful mind.

I remember that day well because as with most things in our marriage, it started out all about me. That morning, I’d been a guest on the Diane Rehm show on NPR to discuss the impacts of natural gas pipelines and eminent domain on landowners’ property. Although husband was away in Kansas City, on a software development contract at Cerner, he’d taken the time to listen to the show and later that day, called to tell me that not only had he heard me, but that one of his relatives had too and contacted him out of the blue to let him know. We chatted about the show (my husband was sure that the national exposure would generate more clients for me), what time he’d be home on Thursday and our weekend plans. I’m pretty sure we both said “I love you” when we hung up the phone.

My husband’s flight was delayed on Thursday so he didn’t get home until 2 a.m. and I was already asleep. When I awoke, he was still sleeping and he stayed in bed for 36 hours barely speaking except to complain about a killer headache and nausea. Within ten days, we’d have the brain cancer diagnosis and even though during his illness, there were many periods when he was largely himself, I still consider July 15, 2014 as the last day of my old life.

Three years later, I go back to that last conversation all the time, imagining all of the things that I would say if I could tell him.

I would tell him that even though I tried to keep my distance when we were dating, I knew he was the one that night 28 years ago, shortly after we’d met, when he showed up at my apartment with a pint of ice cream after I ‘d told him that I couldn’t go out because I was working on a law review article;

I would tell him how awed I was by all the calls he’d get from recruiters and how, as with the Kansas City job, he could be hired based on nothing more than a ten minute phone call because he was that talented;

I would tell him how even though I feigned embarrassment, I was secretly tickled when he was the only parent on back to school night in my daughter’s advanced 8th grade math class who eagerly took the sample test that the teacher passed out (to show us what our kids would be doing), completed it in minutes and then asked the teacher to grade it and of course, scored a 100;

I would tell him what an amazing dad he was — whether teaching our daughters math tricks several years above grade level, memorizing Dr. Seuss and inventing Princess Trudy stories, taking them to the pool, the one activity that I couldn’t stand, driving them to and fro and most of all, never, ever once ever telling them that they couldn’t or shouldn’t do something because they were girls;

I would tell him that even though I groaned, I secretly cherished every single one of his nerdy puns — even the really stupid one about sham poo.

I would tell him how grateful I was for everything he did to support our family both while he was here and even now that he is gone;

I would tell him how proud I was to be married to the smartest guy in the room;

I would tell him that he was truly a mensch,

I would tell him that he mattered; that what he accomplished and how he lived his life made a difference in the world and in science and to our family, our friends and most of all me, and that my life has been a thousand times better because he was in it.

Studies show that a common death bed regret is wishing that you’d said I love you more to people you care about. But honestly, saying I love you is the easiest thing in the world — and we say it without thinking. Recall the protagonist in Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light who finally blurts out “I love you ’til the end of time” to get into his girlfriend’s pants… and then winds up “praying for the end of time to hurry up and arrive.” I told my husband that I loved him, both before he fell sick and after when I took care of him. I think he knew that well enough. But I wish that instead of saying I love you, I told him what I really meant.

I rarely share the insights that I’ve had since my husband died: any lesson feels like blood-money — wisdom that comes at his expense. And besides, my husband’s legacy is about what he did with his life, not what I learned from his death. But today, I’ll make an exception and share this:

Life moves fast, rarely giving us time to reflect. Because we’re so busy, we naturally follow the path of least resistance,— and it’s always easier to say that you love someone than why you do; and it’s far easier still to criticize and focus on what you dislike or what bugs you about people than what makes you happy.

But life is also short and can change in an instant. You may never have another opportunity except right now, today, this moment to tell your husband or wife or partner, your children or friends how you really feel about them. Because trust me, years or weeks or days from now, you don’t want to be in my shoes, haunted by all of those things that you would say …if you could tell them- when you can’t.