The Day After Christmas

Twenty-five years ago today John Durkalski and I were married in St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, Downers Grove, Illinois. That began the happiest four years of my life.

I was 58; John was 69 and had been retired for 12 years. He had nothing to do but make me happy. We traveled all over the U.S. Twice we went to Europe. Any time we encountered a problem, John would make a joke about it – and then work at solving the problem. .

He had his “Polish Solutions”. In the little house in Albuquerque, the garage settled, pulling the wall away from the door to the house. I held my breath when John got out his drill and made several holes in the wood of the door frame. He put heavy bolts through the holes and pulled the door frame back against the wall. I thought, “He’s ruined the door. It will never look right.” John filled the holes with spackle, then painted over. No one noticed where the holes had been. The man was a Polish genius.

I get excited about things. I get angry. John would say, “Let’s sit down and talk about this.” Then we would sit down and talk. Calmly he listened. He never called me names, like “You are stupid to act that way.” Not even when I was stupid to act that way. He knew exactly how to show me a better way to react.

(I wonder what he would say about my diatribes against the greedy rich, recalcitrant Republicans, and the stupidity of Tea Party members. Oh, well, John listened to me, which no one else does.)

The big test came when I had cancer. John showed no disgust when my breast was cut off; he tenderly drained the tubes which hung out of my chest after surgery – and then insisted I put on a coat and go out to breakfast in our favorite restaurant. He wasn’t going to let me hide after my disfigurement.

When I was too sick from chemo to get up off the couch, he cooked Polish sausages and put frozen pizzas in the oven, then sat down next to me and made jokes about whatever was on television. He kept me laughing during six months of chemo and six weeks of daily radiation.

I got well, and John died.

John taught me how to live. The years since he has been gone have not been as glorious as the few years of our marriage, but I continue to have a good life. I became a fearlessly independent woman. I traveled. I went to China, where he would not have gone. I moved back to Texas and bought a house – at age 77. I’ve had 20 happy years. .

To avoid being lonely at Christmas, I used to go away. I spent Christmas in Rome, in Portugal, and in New Orleans. This year I am tied down by dialysis. So I put a wreath on my door and invited other old people who live in this retirement community to come to my apartment for cookies and cider. We had our own merry little Christmas, and it was good.

Today I do not weep for my lost past. On the day after Christmas I give thanks for happy memories and additional thanks for continuing a happy life today.