Facing The Music

I went to the symphony last night. If you are not from Chicago, you might not know that we have a world class symphony, and a gorgeous symphony center. I have always loved it, though have not attended near as much as I would like. It was a lovely evening with a dear friend. We have purchased a package and will attend three more over the course of the next few months. I certainly do not know all that much about classical music , except that I do really enjoy it. While Lou was sick, we listened to alot of classical music. We had our "morning get up and go" music, afternoon "light/joyful" music, and softer/mellow music for evening/sleepytime. It helped us get through the days. It helped us move from one activity to the next. It is always amazing to me how music can create a mood, and how it can "speak" to you. How it can stir your soul. How it can shake you to the core. How it can bring you to tears. How it can bring back memories. Like it did last night. The last time I went to the symphony was with Lou, in January of 2005. It was after he had completed his 6 weeks of daily radiation. It was a weekday matinee. I think it started at 1:30 or so. In those days, we were still having great difficulty getting Lou squared away to get out the door anytime before the afternoon. It could easily take a few hours to get him out of his depression and state of confusion, only to have to start over sometimes. I thought we could make a 1:30 start time. We couldn't. We didn't. I really wanted to go. I thought it would be good for Lou, and I had already purchased the tickets. As 1:30 came and went, I grew a bit frustrated. I was going to give up. Instead, I called the symphony and asked if we could come late. They said we could go in at intermission. That seemed fine with me, Lou would NOT know he had missed the first half as it were. We were finally able to get out the door and down to symphony center. We got in our seats just as intermission ended. The music was magical. Lou soaked it in. It was over much too quickly, unfortunately. We were one of the last to leave, which worked better for us anyway. I will probably never, as long as I live, forget what Lou said as we walked out the doors. He looked at me, as we went through the doors into the cold winter air, and said, "where were we just now?'. We were no more then ten minutes past the end of the performance, if that. We were walking out of this beautiful, grand building. Surely, he must have known where we had just been, how could he NOT ? He didn't. I said, "we are leaving the symphony". He said, " I don't remember that." We walked arm in arm and I told him it didn't matter. I told him it was beautiful, he had enjoyed it, we had been there, together, and that's what mattered. I am quite sure a few tears froze on my cheeks that day. That is when I knew this was serious. That is when I knew we would never, ever get Lou back, no matter how successful a particular treatment might be (which of course, they weren't, nor ever could be). That is when we truly embarked on the creation of the "alter" life for Lou. Manufacturing a life that worked, that made him feel good. Ignoring the obvious. Grasping that which didn't truly exist, except maybe in his mind. Last night, it all came back to me as I sat there at the symphony, with the music swelling around me. What must it have been like to have been Lou all those months? How could this have happened to Lou, of all people ? How could we have heard the music, and NOT have heard it, all at the same time? Just thinking about it pains me so deeply, right this very instant, it pains me. The only way out is knowing we did our best. The only way out is knowing he was happy. He was. Until the very end, he was. The only way out is having no regrets. And I have none. Thank heavens, I have none. The only way out is to face the music. To turn up the volume and let it wash over you. Music is amazing.