I miss Susan every day in a thousand different ways. But one of the aspects that I miss is the physical intimacy that was a part of our lives together.
I know, some people cringe at the world "intimacy" because they assume (or fear) that I'm going to discuss sexual matters. I am aware that many find that subject uncomfortable to hear about, from someone like me, so let me say right now that I'm not about to engage in a discussion of sexual matters. Intimacy includes sexual intimacy, certainly, and I was lucky enough to have a woman with whom I was totally sexually compatible.That's not what I'm talking about when I mention "physical intimacy," however.
Do you enjoy holding the hand of someone you love? Is there still a little thrill, a little excitement, when your hands touch? Does each little squeeze or brushing of fingertips communicate more than many words can express? That's physical intimacy. For more than fifty years, I held Susan's hand. When we were going somewhere in the car, her hand often rested in one. I would rub my thumb lightly over the back of her hand, feeling her knuckles and the gentle motion of the tendons just beneath the skin. I knew exactly where in the center of her palm I could brush with my fingernail to make her give a gentle half-giggle, as if it almost tickled. I remember her supple fingers from the earliest days of our lives together, and I remember those same fingers as arthritis afflicted the knuckles, causing the joints to swell as they lost some of their mobility. But I loved those hands for fifty years, and sometimes I was so moved by holding her hand that I had to lift it to my lips and kiss it gently. "I love you so much that sometimes it just overwhelms me," I would tell her. She would smile and ocassionally respond with a self-deprecating comment, but I would affectionately and gently chide her for not seeing the same loveliness that I saw every time I looked at her.
After fifty years of love and forty-eight years of marriage, both of us came to know all about one another's bodies (and again, I'm not just talking sexually). I knew exactly where on her neck to squeeze upwards with my thumbs when she was tired or tense; I knew where on each temple to rub when she was stressed. I knew the spot on the lower part of her shoulder blades where she liked for me to massage firmly while we were hugging one another, and I remember the little satisfied sound she would make when I did so. I knew that she liked it when, after I rubbed her neck, my fingers would softly slide down the side of her neck to the little hollow where her collarbones came together. I knew how she liked for me to press against the arch of her foot with a knuckled fist before firmly gripping and massaging each foot. I knew the places that were ticklish, and I knew when to avoid them--and when not to.
As her chronic illness progressed in the final years of her life, I knew the places that hurt even under the lightest touch, and I knew to avoid them without her ever having to tell me. I learned how to put my arm around her with affection as we walked into a store, disguising the fact that I was at times having to assist her when walking was difficult. When her hands began to fail her, I learned how to wash her hair the way she liked, massaging her scalp while she closed her eyes and smiled.
I knew her lips so well that I was familiar with every contour. I kissed those lips every day, more than once--every morning when I would leave, every day when I would come home, and for no particular reason in the hours afterwards. Sometimes I would hold her hands while I kissed her; other times, I would hug her and pull her close to me; still other times, I would rub her back to alleviate some of the day's burdens as I kissed her. She knew me just as well, and would frequently brighten a dreary work-heavy evening with a kiss "for nothing 'cept I love you," as she would always reply when I would ask, "What was that for?"
She knew me just as well. She knew me in my youth, when we were just learning one another's bodies and touch was new and exciting. She knew my body as it changed with age and injury. She knew the long scar of my heart surgery; I remember when she gently brushed across it after it had healed, asking if it hurt when she touched it, not wholly convinced when I told her it didn't (even though I was telling her the truth). Her fingers knew the sunken depression of my torn bicep, an injury that left me self-conscious because to me it looks freakish; she never saw it that way. She would joke about my bony knees when I would hold them together, leaving a space above them where the thighs didn't touch (she loved to rub my leg above the knee and joke, "I wish my thighs were like that," even though I thought her thighs were just perfect the way they were.)
Best of all, I was graced with a woman who welcomed my hugs, my caresses, my kisses. Unless you've been lucky enough to spend most of a lifetime with someone who enjoys physical contact as much as you do, you can't fully appreciate what a gift that is. After a while, you take it for granted because that's the way it's always been. Then, when it's taken from you... that's when you fully realize what a gift it was.
Once that's gone, there's a void that can't be filled. It might seem contradictory (and I guess it is), but I'm not a hugger or a person who touches others. It seems intrusive and invasive to simply hug or touch someone without knowing that the person wants to be hugged. I am apprehensive about spanning that physical gap, because I would never want to make someone else uncomfortable.
Knowing that there's someone who always welcomes your hug, shares your kiss, enjoys your touch, and lovingly returns those hugs, kisses, and touches--that's physical intimacy, and there's nothing better. But you'll never know just how important it is until it's gone away, and you realize you'll never share that level of physical intimacy again. Coming to terms with that--that's one of the hardest parts of losing someone you love.
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