Two days before she died, as we walked up the Amsterdam Avenue hill, I let
go of her hand. She had a smile on her face, and the sadness around her eyes
had begun to dissipate. I could always tell when she was depressed. During
her sad times, her eyes resembled those of a silent film actress: dark
circles and a mysterious look, as if she were forever beyond my grasp. For a
moment, with the rays of an autumn sun in her hair and her backward glance
at me, I thought we had made it through the worst.
But I was not aware of the secretive aspect of her depression and how she
had decided to give up. For the first time in our life together, she made
travel plans without me. She would ride a train to a campground where we
spent our first anniversary twelve years before.
I imagined the loneliness of her train journey and wondered if she had taken
one of her journals, or a book, or if she had just stared out of the window.
If I had been willing to believe my eyes, I would have noticed that three
weeks before her death, she gave away her favorite clothes and shoes. She
insisted it was time to buy a new wardrobe, but she did not; instead, she
kept giving things away: books, the tacky travel souvenirs that she liked to
collect, photographs. I sensed a numbness in the house. In retrospect, I
could see that my body began the mourning process before I was consciously
aware of what was happening. It was like standing on a cliff, waiting to be
rescued. I experienced a kind of paralysis in which I dared not speak my
fears. I did not want to break the sanctity of our last weeks together.
On the evening before she died, her journals lay on her desk as usual.
Mariela picked them up several times and sat by the fireplace. She read them
and shook her head, occasionally criticizing the
twenty/twenty-five/thirty-year-old Mariela. She reviewed each year of her
life and re-injured her pride. Her episodes of depression had ruined a
promising college career, dancing career, and numerous friendships. She also
struggled with her role as the “wife of”. When we met in college, we were
both ambitious, and Mariela was a seemingly self-assured feminist determined
to avoid a stereotypical married life. But in the end, she became too
vulnerable for daily interactions with the world, and our lives settled into
a predictable routine: I was the successful man with a beautiful, supportive
wife. And her mental illness was our secret.
People would casually ask why we did not have children, and I would change
the subject. Mariela was afraid that she would pass down what she called her
‘psychological deformity’. Despite her asocial personality, she became an
excellent hostess. It was a performance and a strain to her nerves. She was
charming and lively, and I often wished that she could continue the act
after the guests left. But it was exhausting for her, because too
interaction with people made her nervous and uncomfortable. Sharing her
thoughts on any subject with acquaintances felt like an invasion of privacy.
Mariela demanded intense loyalty and gave the same in return. Toward the
end, she had only two friends who understood.
The day before she died, I asked if she minded my going to the office for a
couple of hours. Mariela looked especially beautiful, but emotionally
distant. She seemed relieved that I was going out. I kissed her mouth, and
squeezed her hand. Her fingers were cold, and her wedding ring was too big
for her finger.
“When I come back, I’m going to take your ring to the jeweler to have it
resized”.
“Okay”.
“As a matter of fact why don’t I take it with me now?”
“No, do it later”.
When I returned three hours later, all of her journals were in the fire. I
did not know what to think. And as it got dark, I became more nervous. At
midnight, I got into bed and found her note. It began with the words “Dear
beloved”. She wrote me letters in a mock formal style. I smiled at her
optimistic ramble about all her dreams and our dreams together. But the last
three lines made my limbs feel heavy: “ I cannot describe the fatigue I feel
– it seems to originate from my bones and heart. Although I love you, I
cannot stay; I have chosen to die. Please forgive me”.
I called 911 without knowing what to say.
The next day, the police called to say they had found her. She took pills
and abandoned her body in the woods. Mariela planned her suicide with the
same attention to detail as an important dinner party. She sent a note to
the local police department, saying where they could find her body.
I hold the note in my hand and see my complicity in her death. I was tired
too. Her shifts from a capable, intelligent woman to a vulnerable, fragile
child left me confused, and, at times, afraid to come home. I never knew
what her mood would be. I always wanted her to be cured, so we could live
normal lives.
I let go of her hand too soon, not understanding her illness. I allowed the
cleanliness of our home, the wonderful meals, her punctuality and competence
to fool me into believing everything was normal. I had seen her suffer for
many years, and, perhaps, my blindness to her despair was an act of
euthanasia in disguise.