La  Recoleta - Buenos Aires

Thanks to Darwin we understand that one of the primary roles of any species lies in the continuity of preservation. Epicurus said we fear death but because there is no pain in it, there is no reason to fear it. When my philosophy professor in Mexico City, Ramón Xirau told us that in class it felt logical.

Because of Darwin we know that we reproduce and have offspring so as to preserve our DNA. Suicide goes against the grain of self-preservation so it shocks us when we are exposed to it.

The death of my Rosemary and our mutual belief that we will never meet again and that our 52 years are all we were going to get has me suddenly feeling that much closer to death.

Because of Epicurus, at night, I try to think about not being. I am unable to grasp that concept because it is against my Darwinian principle that I have to live on and will live on. Perhaps there is some hardy human out there who can circumvent that. Perhaps when Rosemary in the middle of the night told me, "I don't want to be here," was almost there. We cannot surmise what it feels like to know you are dying. Perhaps it is such an exceptional occurrence that the dying person has no words to explain it. And we must wait for our own death to find out about that truth that cannot be shared.

As I navigate my grief and the almost-all-the-time awareness of her not being (in that Epicurean sense of the word) I revel that I am ever so lucky to be alive and to have pleasant feelings. There are four reasons.

Rosemary and I decided (did we luck out?) to have two daughters instead of two sons. During this whole ordeal in which sometimes I have been selfishly aware that our two daughters lost their mother and that I am not the only one to grieve, I get support and cheerful help from them. They have been teaching me to sort out the garbage and to pay my bills. They call every day to ask how I am.

The other two reasons are our two brother and sister cats, Niño and Niña. They cling for attention constantly .The idea of showing tenderness towards them is only a small measure of what it was when I did so with Rosemary. But it helps. Today Thursday, January 7, 2021 I took Niño for a walk around the block. This was the first time he walked (he gallivants on his own after breakfast every day) with me. His last walk may have been sometime, mid-November before his mistress was unable to walk.

It felt good. But that presence, not around, makes me think that the best I ever had has been had and the loneliness of my future will only end with Thanatos. 

Is there any solace in knowing that it will not be painful?

My little bird - Rosemary

The curious banality of death

 If God were a woman

 My Rosemary & Leibniz and Newton

Ashes denote that Fire Was  

 My Rosemary - the Decider in Chief

 Who will be first? She was

Who Will Be First?  May 18, 2013 

 My Rosemary the Hoarder

My Rosemary is no more

Smelling behind the ears

On the  same wings, these two can fly 

My Rosemary's nine beds

Esa rubia en especial  

Deo gratias

La Boca in Buenos Aires - Sept 2019

When I first met Rosemary in the waning days of 1967 people who knew her told me she ate “como un pajarito”. It was not until we moved to Vancouver in 1975 that I found out that there was such a thing as an eating disorder or that I was dyslexic!

So in our 52 years together I had to coax and trick her to eat. If you piled stuff on her plate she would not eat any of it.

The curious banality of death

 If God were a woman

 My Rosemary & Leibniz and Newton

Ashes denote that Fire Was  

 My Rosemary - the Decider in Chief

 Who will be first? She was

Who Will Be First?  May 18, 2013 

 My Rosemary the Hoarder

My Rosemary is no more

Smelling behind the ears

On the  same wings, these two can fly 

My Rosemary's nine beds

Esa rubia en especial  

Deo gratias

Now  that she is gone I have the questionable and upsetting ability to eat what I want and not what she would have eaten. I can eat steaks (I am an Argentine) but my desire for meat is greatly diminished. 

What did Rosemary eat? There were a few things she adored and in her last three months of life she had that woman’s “I am pregnant” food desires so she would say, “I want to eat papaya." (at 3 in the morning) - or a tomato sandwich. We both liked unsalted, cultural butter.

Rosemary liked, Manila mangoes, Mexican rice with a fried egg on top, ditto on mashed potatoes, my barbecued hamburgers, ditto hot dogs, Bonne Maman strawberry jam, Nestlé Quick, many spoonfuls  (she would stir the mixture with a spoon and make a noise close to that of chalk on a blackboard. She knew it annoyed me so this was one very rare trait of her little cruelty!), Yorkshire pudding (she was famous for it), her flan with a spoonful of Nestle Nescafe and lots of burnt sugar syrup. The biggest smile would happen in our Merida hotel or  in any other other Mexican hotel when she faced papaya for breakfast.

Rosemary made delicious pineapple squares that we served when we had an open garden. It was only after about 45 years together that she told me that she really did not like my special cucumber sandwiches (English style) that I served at those garden openings.

While I loved asparagus she did not care for them. But Brussels Sprouts she liked while I passed on them.

She tolerated my homemade pizza.

The high point of our day for at least 25 years was our breakfast in bed with our cats. We had the NY Times and the Vancouver Sun to read. In our tray for her she had toast with her Bonne Maman strawberry jam. She would drink her terrible Decaf which I made in a French press. She said that my orange juice was too acid but when I served freshly made apple juice she liked it. For the first ten years we had bacon for breakfast. This custom began to slow down as we felt we needed to eat healthier. But occasionally she would manage a couple of my very crisp bacon slices. What really made her happy was when I prepared hot cream of wheat with brown sugar. I am sure she suspected that I put in my 2% milk not her 1% and sometimes added cream.

In the middle of those “pregnant desire” nights she would go down for peanut butter and crackers.

There was one custom of hers to which I had mixed feelings. She always wanted to try what I was eating when we went to restaurants. But in the end if she was willing to eat anything I let her try.

Rosemary liked my Mexican cooking. She had a fondness for quesadillas made from wheat tortillas and with the strong Gruyere I used. She liked my Mexican salsa but I had to make two batches one had Serrano chiles the other did not.

Our fave quick dessert was the Argentine quince jelly called dulce the membrillo which we sandwiched with that Gruyere or a cheddar.

Presently in this rainy January melancholy I am trying to finish eating anything that Rosemary might have bought. Will I be able to not connect anything I may eat for the rest of my life?

I doubt it. And yes she liked Fanta and that is what she is holding in that bar in La Boca.