ANITA’S HAND
My first marriage ended circa 1978. My husband had said he needed to “find himself.” I found myself easily--I was now a single mother of two young daughters, overwhelmed, bewildered, and frightened. The terrain was completely new, and I was desperate for support.
My husband had an Aunt whom I loved. During that time of change I consulted with her often. Anita herself had been separated from her husband for a short period. Though they were reunited when my marriage split up, Anita knew what I was facing. As I emotionally flailed, she had a strong message for me. “Bette.” She would say in her articulate style; “You’ve got to deal with the hand you have been dealt.” Though I knew she was right, that was not what I wanted to hear. I wanted Anita to have some magic solution to my getting a new hand. Undaunted by my resistance, Anita continued to encourage me to solve problems, instead of bemoaning situations. Anita was a gifted woman. I trusted her. She could take my hand in hers, look into my eyes, and make me believe that I was okay. Since meeting her I had attempted to absorb her strength. Now, I needed to hear her. I listened, and I began to cope.
Anita was a young mother herself when I first visited her with my new husband in Reading, PA. I was taken with her beauty, her poise and intelligence, the delicious dishes that came from her kitchen so smoothly. I delighted in her two adorable children, and the handsome husband, who obviously adored her. She was interested in psychology and was going to become a therapist. She was a devoted mother, and a valued member of her community. Over the years, in her inimitable way that could go straight to my heart, she offered me the experience and hope of fourteen extra years of living. I was always reassured to know Anita had gone through something like what I was going through, and had come through on her feet.
It seemed to me that my life paralleled Anita’s, though there were differences too. I used to tell her I wanted a little girl just as cute as hers. I got two. She went back to school and became a therapist. So did I. We both opened private practices. Though in different ways, we both survived marital separations. And we both sought to delve deeply into the mysteries of how come we humans act and feel the way we do. With all the similarities between us; I never felt quite up to Anita’s taste and flair. Where she chose the cutting edge of clothes, I was comfy in my snuggies and flannels. When she might choose a simple piece of solid gold from Fifth Avenue, I would choose the wooden bracelet crafted in some small shop. It didn’t matter. We were a heart match.
The last time Anita and I spoke face to face, was at a family wedding not long ago. It had been a while since we had seen each other. “I really need to talk to you.” I said to her. “Even though it is everything I have worked toward, I don’t think I was emotionally prepared for what it is like to have grown up children.”
“I know.” she said,” holding my hands in her baby soft ones, looking as deep into me as ever. “I have felt all these things too; we will talk.” It was as if no time had passed. Feeling grateful that she was still ahead of me, I was comforted knowing she would again be a guide.
Life intervened. The next and last conversation Anita and I had was not about our children’s adulthood, but about her husband’s unexpected death. As we spoke, and I offered her what comfort I could, her words echoed in me... “The hand...dealt.” She was coping as well as one could, her two devoted children beside her. We promised each other to be better in touch.
Death, especially sudden, is a hard hand to fathom. Shortly after that last talk, Anita was hit by a car while crossing a familiar street. Coming to grips with a startling loss is a tumult of emotions, as we try to make sense out of the seemingly senseless. I had been excited about our renewed contact. Anita had been enthralled with having become a grandmother. In my attempt to soothe my shock and grief, I spoke with a friend, a clergywoman. “Feel your sadness, and then...Go, and honor her life in the way you live yours.” She said to me. Thinking this way seems to put Anita’s very essence into my life. Wouldn’t that be just like what Anita herself might say? Anita always honored the feelings; yet, encouraged the action rather than just massaging the wound.
I can’t help wondering what Anita would, if she could, tell me about this finality she has faced. If I close my eyes, I can see her kind eyes; I can feel her soft hand. She assures me she is okay; and once more that I am okay. She smiles the smile that lights up her delicate face and assures me that she accepts the hand she has been dealt, even as those of us who loved her may rail against it. She tells me the only way to live with peace of mind is to accept--to do the best we can to deal with what life deals us. I know she is right.
I can feel her gentle gaze, waiting to see if I have understood. I continue on the path now without her physical presence. Her gifts, though, are ever here. Anita has shown me how a woman can live with grace, courage and the wisdom of acceptance
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