I don't know how I would handle my grief in similar circumstances. ... 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.
I wonder if it's a coincidence, a product of our romantic imaginations, that so often elderly couples seem to pass within short order of each other. As if they derive strength from one another's presence, as if it literally is too much for them to go on without their partners. I wonder if there's some other explanation for that pattern, or if it's one of those we see because we want to that isn't really there.
My grandmother survived five weeks after the death of her husband of 60 years. He was a remarkable man, a World War II veteran and Harvard Law School grad who went on to serve as a JAG attorney for more than three decades. She a was a faithful Army spouse who raised my father to be the person I most admire in this world. When my grandfather's health began to decline, when it began to look like he was near the end, something happened to the otherwise healthy woman that was his wife. Her heart stopped working; her health declined with his. She was admitted to the same hospital where he was being treated, and they were able to share a room, their beds wheeled right up next to each other. She was holding his hand when his heart beat for the last time.
She lived long enough to see him given a proper military burial, one of the most moving and meaningful experiences I've personally ever had. Soldiers in attendance played Taps and presented her with the flag that draped his coffin. I remember her crying quietly—she never liked to be the center of attention.
That was July. By August, she had passed away herself.
I suspect there's more than happenstance accounting for situations like the one I just described. I think it might be possible to love so deeply that it alone sustains you, that without it, an already weakened person can find himself physically unable to go on.
I think we saw it happen these past three months with Joe Paterno.
One could argue he'd have died this morning regardless. His health has been flagging for some years, and his cancer diagnosis will undoubtedly be recorded as the official cause of death.
But it would be an unusual onlooker who didn't wonder fleetingly, at least, weather the ordeal he experienced last November didn't quicken this day's coming. That the man who lived and breathed for Penn State football was crushed, completely, when it was taken from him can't possibly be disputed. It seems only a few steps further to think that perhaps that heartbreak reduced his will to fight sufficiently to allow the illness to defeat him... that perhaps the scandal and subsequent firing themselves left him defeated.
I can't say he'd still be here if not for Jerry Sandusky. But I feel sure the list of lives the latter damaged doesn't just end with his victims'.
Requiescat in pace, JoePa.
