The Last Valentine

Valentine’s Day was my favorite holiday.

Even when I was single and had no valentine, my mom would make a fuss, sending me a card and a present. As a kid, I would make elaborate cards for my classmates. After I got a proper boyfriend, I was all in with the holiday. When I had my own children, I always get them gifts that rivaled their Christmas presents. With PJ’s birthday on February 13th, I preferred to call him my Valentine’s baby (even though, technically, he was born on Friday the 13th- no jokes about that). I would even celebrate the day with co-workers and students. One year I had driven all over the city and stood in line for an hour to pick up chocolate covered strawberries for Pat and the kids. I would do silly things like that.

But, the the truth is Pat never shared my enthusiasm for the day.

But this last Valentine’s Day, Pat was quiet, he had not gotten me a card or a gift, and I was a bit peeved, but, I knew he was not feeling well, so I said nothing.

Then, out of the blue he said, “Let’s go out this afternoon.”

My heart lifted, he had not forgotten, even if it was just a lunch or a coffee, I was pleased. Then Pat finished his thought and my hopes were dashed, “Yes, “ he said, “we can go out because we need to notarize the will. “ I joked, “Well, that just might be the most romantic idea ever.” He did not answer, and I was not sure he heard me since he was not wearing his hearing aids. More and more, I guessed he used the hearing loss as a way to avoid talking with me.

Now, it is well known that one of the paradoxes of my husband is that while he adored his family and me, he was not overly sentimental. And his illness had sapped him of the energy to even put on a minimal performance of feigned interest in things like Valentine’s Day. There was also the fact that he channeled all his concerns about his health into spreadsheets to analyze the children’s 529 accounts.

Pat’s estate planning scared me, particularly since I could not ignore the mounting evidence that Pat’s chemotherapy was not going well. I did not like the idea of spending the time we had left in a dreary strip mall on City Avenue, signing paperwork in front of Mr. Yang, the owner of dry cleaners next door to US Mailroom where Shane, the notary public, would be taking care of the will. I could not even look at Pat as he worked on the paperwork and carefully assembled his papers. I wanted to hold hands and drink wine and share a romantic lunch. I was jealous of how he was far more interested in the pieces of paper than me.

I had not even thought much about the will until yesterday when our friend Joe, the will’s executor, asked me to send him the notarized copy.

“Joe, I thought you had it.”

“No, Pat had kept it, “ he responded, not hiding the worry in his voice.

Now I was annoyed, after the way Pat had ruined Valentine’s Day, now the notarized will, the reason he had dragged me to the notary public was missing. We needed the will to file the death certificate, this piece of paper was irreplaceable.

I tore through the house, I had found old copies of the will, our insurance policies, the Social Security numbers and birth certificates but no will.

Then, I raced up to the third floor to Pat’s office, a place I had avoided for days. The mess was just a terrible as I feared, stacks of paper that were proxies for Pat’s stream of consciousness and dizzying array of interests. There was guitar music for Cal and his band strewn everywhere, garden catalogs, books, the paperwork for our taxes that he had started but put aside when the deadline had been extended to July, Census forms, notes from his research project, copies of court cases -also part of his new book project. Then I found a blue folder that had Legal Zoom written on the cover. Relieved I pulled it out, but it was empty except for the the receipt from the notary public, which had February 14, 2020 stamped at the top in giant print, mocking me.

I called Joe again, and now I was furious, “You have got to be kidding me, “ I said, laughing and crying at the same time, “Pat ruined that Valentine’s Day and I can’t find this fucking will.” Joe told me to keep looking and try Pat’s computer. I found a file of documents and paperwork. There were multiple copies of the will, but not signed and notarized.

I returned to our bedroom and then the dining room in search of the will. Nothing. Then I took a deep breath and climbed to the third floor again. “It must be in here. “ I told myself.

As I walked into the office, something caught my eye, off in a corner. On a tiny file holder, hidden behind the piles of paper was this silver leather pouch. The leather pouch was old-fashioned and out of place among the chaos of Pat’s things. I am not sure how I had missed it before. I suspect the pouch belonged to Pat’s father, Paddy. It looked like the pouches Paddy had used to carry the paperwork for his bookie shop back in Drogheda before the rise of computers made the need for such things obsolete. I grabbed it. And it, I discovered the will, the power of attorney and his living will…..everything.

The papers were carefully filed in bright colored folders a party planner might use for an event. The tabs had his truly awful handwriting no one could read. It was carefully and lovingly assembled with the care you would take with a precious jewel. I looked for a note or a letter, or even a Valentine’s Day card, but there was nothing else. At the back of the folder, among these important papers he had wanted me to find were the consent forms for his research project on why victims don’t cooperate with the police. These were the things that mattered most: his family and his work. How foolish I felt now for ever questioning that he had taken care of the will.

For Pat, who could not find a way to say goodbye, this will was his way of saying “I love you.”

We had had a fight after we got home from the notary public. I was saying “I love you “ a lot to him, and this bothered him, he complained, “When you say ‘I love you, I feel like I have to say it back to you.’” I started to cry, this seemed so cruel and unfeeling. Then I shot back, “Well it seems to me that you would rather spend time with your friends like Joe and the guys and the band and the kids instead of me. You have planned trips to Ireland and Liverpool with them, and I can’t even get a bit of your time. It is like you are avoiding me.”

Pat looked down and said, “I am sorry, I know, it’s just that I just need to get out of this nosedive with the cancer. But I promise, if I can get back into remission, I will take you on the trip for our 25th anniversary that I owe you. I have been thinking about that we need to do that.”

I understood that the reason Pat did not to spend time with me because he could not bear to face my heartbreak over losing him. He had no way of functioning beyond his version of John Wayne’s “The Quiet Man.” But this meant all his emotions were shut down because feeling too much, crying, revealing how much anguish and pain he held in about leaving the kids and me terrified him as much -if not more- than the cancer. This protection came at a high price. It made intimacy and closeness hard for us, but, for Pat, it was the cost of protecting us and himself so he could function.

Pat knew he was dying, yet, he had no way to talk to me about it with me since sharing his fears would unravel him and me completely. I will always feel I let him down this way, that I could not be there for him, that we did not speak more about what was happening. I know he loved me and I longed for him to say it more frequently although, as my mother would say: “actions speak louder than words.”

I grabbed the folder to my chest and started to weep and was kissing the folder like it was Pat himself, “I am sorry sweetheart, I am sorry I ever doubted you. Of course you would never have forgotten this, of course you would have this for me to find.”

Here was my Valentine’s Day present after all.

I