If there is a meaning in life at all, then there must be a meaning in suffering. Suffering is an ineradicable part of life, even as fate and death. Without suffering and death human life cannot be complete.
—Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
It was the end of August and we were in East Hampton at Grey Gardens. I always had a big birthday party for Ben on the Saturday night closest to his birthday, which was the twenty-sixth. It was his favorite party of the year. In 2014 it was Ben’s ninety-third birthday. Though he would insist “I don’t want all that fuss,” he was quick to peer over my shoulder to check on the seating arrangements.
Ben was agitated, confused, and weak that day, though he had slept most of the morning and afternoon. There were more than forty invited for a seated dinner. He was lying on the bed, watching me get dressed, his favorite thing to do, and held up his hand, our signal for me to come over and take it. He looked at me with a mixture of sadness, apology, and maybe a little embarrassment. “I don’t think I’m going to make it, babe,” he said. I kissed him and told him it would be okay if he didn’t feel like it. Everyone would understand. If he felt up to it, he could come downstairs later.
Trying to put on a brave and cheerful face to greet our guests was extremely difficult. I managed to get through cocktails and announced dinner. As I led the way to the dining room, who should appear at the bottom of the steps but Ben, tan and gorgeous and dashing as usual in his Turnbull and Asser shirt with the white collar, white striped pants, a dark sweater, and the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. He was the host. He greeted everyone warmly, shook their hands, clapped them on the back, remembered their names—and if he didn’t he called them “chief” or “gorgeous.” He was the handsomest man in the room and the cockiest. He was Ben, my husband, the man. He had rallied yet again.
The party was a smash. Ben carried it off. He was clearly having a great time. The birthday cake arrived and he blew out the candles. I made a wish, wishing that he would keep living. I began the toasts, telling Ben how much I loved him. What followed was one fabulous encomium after the other. Ben lit up. According to the toasts, Ben was clearly the greatest editor, man, human who ever lived. The more people drank the more over the top the toasts became. Steve Kroft gave a fabulous toast and then was so wound up that he gave it again, cheered on by the rowdy guests.
Then Ben tried to respond. He couldn’t and was clearly frustrated. He kept saying my name. It was becoming uncomfortable. I knew what he was trying to say, what he had said after all his birthday parties. I put my hand on his and said, “You can just say you love me if you want. You don’t need to say anything else.” He couldn’t get the words out. “I think everyone needs another drink,” I said loudly to the group and everyone seemed happy to let Ben off the hook. I got up and put my arms around his shoulders and whispered to him how much I loved him and how proud of him I was.
Suddenly, he was exhausted. He quietly got up and slipped out of the room. The party went on. Oh, Ben, how I wanted you to be able to stay and have a good time and be the life of the party the way you always were. How I wanted you back. I couldn’t wait to get up to my bed and hold him in my arms. I went upstairs and crawled into the bed and engulfed him. He had been asleep, but he knew I was there.
“I tried to say I loved you but I couldn’t,” he said. “I’m sorry, babe.”
“You were fantastic tonight,” I whispered. “Everyone said so. You really pulled it off.”
“It was a wonderful party,” he said. “You always do it so well. . . .”
He dozed off. I cried myself to sleep.
The doctors had told me Ben was in perfect health. He could live another five years. Yet I knew in my gut that night, for the first time, that he was leaving me. I lay in bed with Ben and thought about praying. As with Quinn, the night before his heart surgery, I didn’t know who to pray to. I didn’t know what to ask for. Did I really want Ben to live this way, or get worse, for another five years? I didn’t know what I wanted. I wasn’t angry. I felt defeated. I had always managed to overcome everything bad that had happened to me. But this? I didn’t want to drag Quinn down by letting him know how hopeless I felt. All I had to turn to was God. And God just wasn’t there for me at that moment.
* * *
It was Thursday, September 11, 2014. Ben would be dead in a little over a month, but I couldn’t have predicted that. We were moving forward with life as usual, our new normal. Ben was tired but in a good mood. He was always happy to see his doctor, Michael Newman, and we had a jovial conversation with him about Ben’s overall health. Ben said he was slowing down but felt fine. Michael asked the nurse to take Ben for a blood test. When he left, Michael shut the door and sat down.
“I’m putting Ben in hospice care,” he said.
“I’m sorry?” Clearly I hadn’t heard him correctly.
“I’m putting him in hospice care.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. “He’s not dying. He’s healthy as a horse. There’s nothing medically wrong with him. He sleeps a lot and is confused, but the geriatric psychiatrist said he could live for five more years.”
“I know,” said Michael quietly. He was not just Ben’s doctor. He was mine and Quinn’s as well. He was also a close friend. We spoke shorthand. He was always honest with me, and beyond empathetic. He loved Ben too. We just looked at each other.
“How much time does he have?” I asked finally.
“Maybe four months but I doubt it,” he said. “Probably two.”
“But, Michael, how do you know? What are the signs?”
“I just know,” he said. “I’ve been doing this a long time.”
I was in such shock that I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t take it in. Here was my husband I loved so much, joking and laughing with Michael just a minute ago and now he would be gone in two months? I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea. Michael picked up the phone and called the head of hospice and arranged for his favorite nurse, Vallerie Martin, to come to our house to meet Ben that week. I sat there like a zombie. The nurse brought Ben back into the room, all smiles. Michael explained that he was going to send a nurse over to the house once a week to see him, so he wouldn’t have to be constantly coming downtown to the office. Ben didn’t seem to think anything of it. Neither of us mentioned hospice. When we left, as we were waiting for the elevator, I put my arms around Ben and hugged him as hard as I could.
Our usual exchange took on an even greater meaning: “I love you, Ben.”
“Me too, babe.”
* * *
A few days later, I received a letter from Oak Hill Cemetery, which is at the top of our hill in Georgetown on R Street at Thirtieth. Ben and I had bought a plot there some years earlier. The cemetery is a “garden cemetery,” one of the most beautiful in the country. At the time the only available plot was down the hill in a sort of gulch right on the road, which I found depressing. However, we bought it because we wanted to get grandfathered in. We could upgrade later.
The letter said Oak Hill was trying to create more space and had decided to sell eight plots for mausoleums along the small road that ran behind the entrance garden. Would I be interested? I would. The coincidence of the timing was astonishing. Although, as I understand the universe, I now know better than to call a gift like this a coincidence. Caroline Casey had taught me the term synchronicity, or meaningful coincidence. She always told me to watch for periods of increased synchronicity—these periods, she said, are when the magic happens.
I made an appointment to meet with the superintendent of the cemetery on that Thursday, September 18, in the afternoon. I had already agreed to do an interview at midday with Brian Lamb of C-SPAN. It was to be a wide-ranging conversation about On Faith, how the website was doing, and my life in general.
I had only told a few close friends that Ben was in hospice care—clearly still not really knowing what it meant. He wasn’t sick. He was confused and slept a lot, but he still knew us all. He was still Ben.
Brian began the interview by asking questions in general, but at some point he asked me how Ben was doing. By that time our friends and many of his old colleagues knew that Ben had dementia, but that was the extent of it. I remember starting to talk about Ben and having an out-of-body experience. It wasn’t me talking. There was this person sitting in a chair and I was floating above her listening to her tell Brian, very calmly, solemnly but not emotionally, that her husband was dying and had been put under hospice care. She clearly had no qualms about what she was saying. She was very matter-of-fact. She talked about how taking care of him was a spiritual experience. I nodded to myself. She was right. I hadn’t thought of it that way. I hadn’t thought of it any way except that taking care of him was what I was meant to do, what I was called to do, what I had to do, but mostly what I really wanted to do more than anything in the world. Taking care of Ben was sacred. She kept talking. I agreed with everything she said; she said it better than I could have. Where was she finding the words? It felt like a stream of consciousness, as if she had to tell this, had to get it out, had to let people know.
When the interview was over and Brian thanked her, I came back into myself. I had no feeling at all. I got up to leave. Several of the producers came up with tears in their eyes to tell me how moving the interview was, but I didn’t remember what had been said. I managed to sleepwalk my way out of there and get home. I needed to see Ben, to reassure myself that he was still there.
Then I went to the cemetery and chose a plot that was in the front for a mausoleum. It didn’t occur to me then, in the state I was in, that anyone, much less Ben, would ever be in it. It just gave me a sense of comfort knowing it was there.
* * *
Ben’s hospice nurse, Vallerie, began visiting regularly. Ben still had no idea she was a hospice nurse. Or maybe he did. He had no idea I was planning his funeral. Or maybe he did. She and I discussed the fact that we had not talked about death. We decided that he didn’t want to. He hadn’t asked Michael Newman or Vallerie or me a single question about his health.
I was moving full steam ahead with funeral planning. It was a strange yet welcome distraction, a way to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. Actually, nothing can stop me when I’m in that state. As Ben would say, my “motor was running.” In some ways, I’d never been so calm and undistressed in my life. I had called the National Cathedral and spoken to Dean Gary Hall to set up an appointment with the staff. I had lined up the choirs, a tenor, a band, the food and a tent for the reception, the programs, the evergreens for the church. I hadn’t cried. I had too much to do and not enough time, although I still hadn’t accepted it yet. I was planning all this just in case. . . .
A week or so before Ben died, Vallerie was conducting a “routine” checkup on Ben. She was trying to get a sense of where he was. Suddenly he turned serious. He looked at Vallerie and me.
“When am I leaving?” he asked.
“What do you mean, Ben?” I responded. He seemed puzzled that I didn’t understand.
“When do I have to go?” I looked at Vallerie. Was he saying what I thought he was saying?
“Go where, Ben?” I asked. He appeared frustrated and impatient.
“When am I going home?”
“You are home, Ben,” I said, taking his hand. “You are home.”
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the sofa. Vallerie motioned to me to leave the room with her. We walked into the kitchen.
“He’s asking when he’s going to die, isn’t he?” I said, barely able to keep it together.
“Yes.”
I knew that “going home” was the closest we were going to get to speaking about his death. His spirit was in me and mine in him. We didn’t need to say anything to each other. He knew and I knew. We both knew.
* * *
That same night Bob Woodward and Elsa Walsh came to see Ben. Everyone wanted to say good-bye. Ben came alive—it was amazing how he would rally. I fixed him a drink as I did every night. We laughed and talked. He was really coherent. Ben and I sat together on the sofa, he held my hand tightly and swung it back and forth. He was so loving and affectionate and talked about what good care I was taking of him that it nearly made me cry. Elsa too.
Ben gave Bob the finger at one point, which really meant he was back. Bob was thrilled. After they left, I took him upstairs to help him shower and get him ready for bed. He was in a particularly feisty mood. I had a hard time with him in the shower and finally had to undress and get in with him as I sometimes did when he couldn’t wash himself. When I got him out, I started to dry him off. At one point the towel brushed up against his private parts.
“Ouch!” he yelled.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Did I hurt you?”
He glared at me. “If you hit my balls one more time, this party is over.”
I burst out laughing. I looked up at him to see how upset he was, and he had a mischievous grin on his face. It was Ben. I stood up and put my arms around him, both of us still dripping wet, and held him for the longest time.
That night, after his shower, as I was walking him to his side of the bed, he stopped on my side and sat down. I had on a little silk night shift. He pulled me to him and began to run his hands underneath it, caressing my body, kissing me all over, telling me how beautiful I was, how desirable I was, how much he loved me. I knew he wanted to make love to me. I wanted him to as well. That part of our lives had never ended. But I knew he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t too. We just held each other. I have never known such longing. I have never known such sorrow.
* * *
Because the house had been busy with family and friends throughout that week—everyone wanting to say good-bye—both Ben and I were exhausted, although he seemed to be holding his own. I finally decided to stop having people come by. He couldn’t handle it anymore.
That weekend Quinn and I decided to take Ben to Porto Bello again. We didn’t know how many weekends he had left, and the weather was going to be beautiful, sunny and crisp. We could have a fire, which Ben loved. We had a hard time getting him in the car, and he slept the whole way down. We had told Vallerie we were going, and she said she would alert the hospice people down there. I took my hospice kit with me. By the time we got to the country Ben couldn’t get out of the car. When we finally got him into the house, he didn’t want to sit by the fire. He wanted to go to bed, but we had to carry him up the stairs. I almost decided to put him back in the car and drive home, but it was already dark and I figured if he hadn’t improved by the next day, we’d go back.
We got him in bed and he went right to sleep. The next day he couldn’t get out of bed. He was practically catatonic. I called Vallerie. They couldn’t get a hospice nurse over to us because they weren’t on the same plan or something. It was all very confusing. Quinn had called his friend Stephen, whose wedding we had had at Porto Bello the weekend before. Stephen’s father, John Ball, was the priest at the Episcopal Church in St. Mary’s City across the river from us. He dealt with hospice all the time, but he couldn’t get a nurse over either. Ben was really sinking, and I was in a panic. He wasn’t making any sense, just talking gibberish. I spoke to John, who thought Ben might be dying. He called his friend the local doctor, who agreed with his diagnosis. I was practically hysterical. I didn’t want him to die at Porto Bello. We had no hospice care. The police would come. We’d have to get his body to Washington. I didn’t know what to do.
John showed up at the house and suggested he give Ben last rites. He and Quinn and I gathered around Ben in our bedroom and placed our hands on him as we prayed. I had never heard last rites before except in books and movies. I felt as if I were in a movie. It was unreal. The movie was going to be over soon and then we could go to sleep and in the morning everything would be okay. I wrapped myself around Ben, weeping. Quinn was holding me, stricken. It was all happening so fast. Ben seemed only vaguely aware of what was going on.
Father Ball began with this prayer: “Almighty God, we lift up your servant Ben, and we thank you for his life. . . . Help him to know you are right there with him holding his hand as you lead him gently home.” He continued praying: “We remember, O Lord, the slenderness of the thread, which separates life from death and the suddenness with which it can be broken.” He then said the Lord’s Prayer and anointed Ben on the forehead with oil.
After the prayer of commendation, he ended with a blessing: “May the peace of God which passes all understanding keep your heart and mind in the knowledge and love of God and of his son, Jesus Christ, our Lord. The blessing of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, be with you now and remain with you always. Amen.”
Not since Quinn’s wedding had I been so immersed in prayer. His words were not only not off-putting but welcome and deeply comforting. I felt Ben was safe, in good hands, cherished, and he would be taken care of. I believed for that moment that Ben was in God’s hands.
Ben began breathing a bit more steadily and I persuaded John to leave, promising to call him if Ben died. I made Quinn go to bed and clung on to Ben for the rest of the night, counting his irregular breaths, my hand on his heart. I finally fell asleep. Sunday morning he was still alive. But he was definitely dying. John Ball got the doctor to come over to see if we could get back to Washington in a car or if we needed to get an ambulance or if we should let him die where we were. I was adamant that we take him back to Washington. The doctor felt we could get him back alive if we gently put him in the car with the seat all the way down and pillows around him, which we did. We made it home quickly and had him in our bed by midday. He was so happy to be there and so was I. I curled my body around him and never left him until he died two days later.
For those two days Ben was surrounded by family and friends. Quinn later told me that on the last day Ben was able to speak he saw that he could barely keep his eyes open. When Quinn asked his father if he was okay, Ben threw up his hands and said, “Yeah, of course. I’m fine. Don’t worry.” Later that day Quinn had gone back and lay down on the bed with him. Ben lifted his head, just barely, looked over his shoulder, and said to him: “I got a good feeling about you . . . I love you.” Those were his last words to Quinn. What a send-off.
Leslie Marshall, Ben’s former daughter-in-law, who lived across the street, was there the whole time. I don’t know how I would have made it through without Leslie. She came every day to give Ben a hug and keep up my spirits. Ben’s daughter, Marina, and his stepdaughter, Ros Casey, were also with us every day. Other family members came in and out. He seemed to recognize everyone. Bob and Elsa came by again and came upstairs. “Ben,” I said, “it’s Bob and Elsa.” “Bob Woodward,” shouted Ben and practically sat up, stretching his arms out for a hug. “Yaaaaay!” They stayed only a short while, and he collapsed back into his pillow. Eden and Jerry Rafshoon came too, but Ben was beginning to drift off. Soon I asked everyone to leave. I wanted to be alone with him.
When the house was finally quiet, I turned to Ben, the light still on, still holding him tightly and I looked him in the eyes. “I love you, Ben,” I said simply.
He looked at me with such adoration I will never get over it. I don’t expect to see that look in anyone’s eyes again. Most people may not be lucky enough to see it even once.
“Me too, babe,” he said.
Those were the last words he spoke to me.
* * *
Ben drifted off to sleep. I didn’t know that he wouldn’t regain consciousness. I thought I would see him in the morning, talk to him, tell him again that I loved him. Have him tell me he loved me. That would never happen.
October 20 was our thirty-sixth wedding anniversary. I whispered to him that he couldn’t die before that. He had to live out that day for me, for us. He didn’t try to get up that night but his breathing had taken on a rasping quality. He would breathe in, with a breath full of sound, followed by a long silence that seemed like an eternity and then, when I thought he had drawn his last breath, he would breathe in again. I slept fitfully, on and off, too afraid to let myself go for fear he might die.
The next morning, Quinn was right there. He didn’t leave Ben’s side, sitting in a chair next to the bed and holding his other hand. Carmen brought in some balloons and flowers. All of us made a big fuss over Ben and our anniversary. He was not responding. I still had so many things I wanted to say to him. I lay in the bed next to him all day, reliving our wedding, reminding him of what a spectacular day it was, a beautiful sparkling October day and how I was so happy that I collapsed in his arms in tears when I was saying our marriage vows in front of Judge Bazelon.
I know he heard me. I began to caress his face and his head, tracing the outline of his profile over and over again, so as to memorize it, as if I were reading Braille. I thought if I kept touching him, I could keep him from leaving me.
I held his hand, only letting go to get up and use the bathroom. I would warn him not to die while I was gone. When I let go of his hand, he would clench and unclench his fingers until I got back. We went through the whole day like that. I smoothed his forehead, kissed him, and lay with my head on his chest, listening to him breathe laboriously, counting his heartbeats, praying for him to live, praying for him to die.
That night, our last together, our anniversary night, I turned out the lights and I reminisced to him about our honeymoon night. What happiness we had shared. What passion we had shared.
I needed that closeness again. He was wearing his favorite French gray-and-navy-striped long-sleeve T-shirt, so worn that it was raggedy around the neck and sleeves. I took it off. I had an overwhelming primitive urge to taste him—the same urge I had the night before Quinn’s surgery when I thought he might die. This time I knew Ben was going to die. I began to kiss him all over and kept going until I was exhausted and he and I were both slick with my tears. Then I just lay on top of him and let him do the breathing for both of us until I fell asleep.
I didn’t sleep long. Finally I rolled over and held his hand and listened to him, listened to him dying. One thing I know for sure. God was in the room with us that night.
* * *
The next morning I began to give Ben morphine. I had the kit and gave him a syringe full every half hour or so. Vallerie arrived in the late afternoon. His breathing had become really erratic. The pauses in between breaths made each one seem like the last. Even then, though, if I let go of his hand for a second, his fingers would start to wiggle. But then it happened; he took one last deep breath, let out a huge shudder, and seemed to sink back in his pillow. I kept waiting for the next gasp, but it never came. Please, Ben, one more breath. Nothing. His hand loosened in mine, even though I wouldn’t let go.
Quinn put his head on his father’s chest and began to sob. Ben’s mouth was open. Vallerie came over and closed it. Then she called hospice. They called the funeral home. I lay there holding him, the family surrounding him.
What was I supposed to do now?
When Ben and I decided to get married we had less than a week to arrange our wedding. He wouldn’t let me tell anyone. He didn’t want to get scooped by the Star, our rival newspaper. I suddenly realized with all the family in the room and people downstairs in the house, the word would get out quickly that Ben had died. My journalistic instincts took over. It was 7:30 P.M. If I called now, we would make the first edition.
The Washington Post broke the story online and we made the first edition. Ben would have been so happy.
The funeral home came to get his body and took him away. I was beyond exhausted. I asked everyone to leave and took a shower, took my first Ambien in a year, and passed out. I had taken Ben’s French T-shirt, rolled it up, and clutched it in my arms like a baby pillow. I would sleep with it every night from then on.
* * *
The following morning I woke up alone in my bed. Something was wrong. Something was missing. Then I remembered. Ben was gone. My sister, Donna, went to the funeral home with me. Somebody had to view the body. I didn’t want to. I wanted to remember him alive, even the way he was at the end. Donna came back from the viewing shaking her head. “You don’t want to see him,” she said. “He doesn’t look like Ben.”
Of course he wouldn’t when that much energy and life and light goes out of a person, and Ben had more than most. It couldn’t be Ben. But where was he? What had happened to all that energy? It had to be somewhere. I wanted so badly to feel it, but I didn’t. I wanted a visitation but I hadn’t had one. I wanted a sign.
“Ben,” I kept repeating to him under my breath, “let me know you are here with me.”
That night I went to bed, I started to turn out my light. Just then the light on Ben’s bedside table on the other side of the room went on. It stayed on for several minutes. At first I was stunned. “Oh, Ben, you are here. Thank you for letting me know. I love you so much. I miss you terribly already.” His light flickered several times as though he were responding in kind. Then it went dark.
I threw myself on his pillow hoping by some miracle he would materialize. But it was just his pillow.
The next morning Carmen and I checked the lightbulb to make sure it hadn’t burned out. It was fine. It still is.
* * *
The days before the funeral were a total blur. There would be three thousand mourners at the National Cathedral. It would be broadcast on C-SPAN. I was drowning in names, lists, programs, limousines, seating, music, tablecloths, flowers, menus, what to wear. Each thing I did had the mundane about it, yet I had a vision of the spectacular. It had to be. For Ben.
I spent hours going over the service, what music should be played and when, what readings, who the speakers, pallbearers, and ushers would be, in what order they would speak. Ben’s and my song was “Evergreen.” I would have the same Irish tenor who sang at Quinn and Pari’s wedding sing it before the official service began. I wanted no flowers, only masses of different evergreens banked along and in front of the altar. I wanted one white rose to place on Ben’s casket. He always gave me roses for our anniversary. I wanted a color guard with the American flag, “Taps,” his favorite hymns, a choir. The dean of the cathedral, Gary Hall, was incredible, and the whole staff helped me plan the ceremony according to the protocol of the Episcopal Church.
My family had arrived from California and the house was full, thank God. The phones were ringing, the doorbells were chiming, notes and flowers and food were being delivered constantly. There was no time to grieve. The day of the funeral arrived. Oddly, I felt no emotion and was not at all nervous. Everything had been planned. I woke up, had some yogurt, and got dressed. It was strange but I had the feeling I was dressing for my own funeral. I put on each piece of clothing, each piece of jewelry (I wore Ben’s family necklace, the same one I wore at our wedding) with ritualistic deliberation. I did my hair, put on my makeup, dabbed perfume (Sortilège) at my neck and on my wrists as though it would be the last time.
I slowly walked out of my room and down the stairs to the hallway where the whole family was waiting, everyone in black. Ben’s children, grandchildren, stepchildren, their children, nieces and nephews—there must have been forty or fifty all together. There were limousines waiting for everyone. I gave people their car assignments. In ours, I told Quinn, would be him and me and Ben. I had forgotten. Ben would not be in our car. Ben was dead. Ben would be in his coffin in the long black hearse in front of us.
I got in the car and we drove to the National Cathedral. As we pulled up I saw a throng of people lined up to enter. We, the immediate family, were shown to the holding room. Vice President Joe Biden, whom I had known since he was first elected to the Senate, and his wife Dr. Jill Biden came into the room to give their condolences.
Finally it was time for the service to begin. I was still strangely unemotional. We filed out of the receiving room and took our places behind the casket in order to walk down the aisle. I stared straight ahead, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone for fear I would lose my control. I was determined not to cry. I carried a white rose to place on Ben’s casket. I kissed the rose and placed it on the coffin. We took our seats in the front row, Quinn next to me, and the service began.
For me, the National Cathedral has always been a place of transcendence. I’ve always felt close to God or something higher than myself in that space. I often go there in the midafternoon when the sun pours in through the stained-glass windows and sit and meditate and pray. Even the spires of the cathedral seem to be lifting their arms to God, beseeching, praising.
It’s a place where I feel I can go to ask for help. I feel something is there, something that gives me solace and comfort, something that reinforces what I now call my faith. I feel cherished there. I am never alone.
For the funeral service, some of the rituals were dictated by church rules and one of the hymns was requested by Ben. The rest of the service I planned. I wanted, above all, to honor him in a way that would be fitting to his personality. There was sadness, yes, but I wanted people to feel joy as well. It was an exquisite outpouring of love for Ben. Ben’s daughter, Marina, and stepdaughter, Ros Casey, did readings, as well as Bo Jones and Jerry Rafshoon. Michael Newman said Kaddish. Tributes were given by Carl Bernstein, Tom Brokaw, Don Graham, David Ignatius, Walter Pincus, and Bob Woodward. Somehow I managed to keep it together, partly by listening so hard to everything each person said about a man that I knew they loved too.
The most difficult part of the service, the part I had been dreading had arrived. Quinn was going to eulogize his father. He had come to me the day before the funeral, in tears. “I can’t do this, Mom,” he said. “I’ll never make it.” He had written his eulogy but I had not seen it. He was confident about what he had to say.
“Yes, you can,” I told him. “You can because Dad will be with you the whole time. He will be standing beside you with his arm around your shoulder and he will make sure you can do it.”
He didn’t seem convinced. I prayed he would have the courage. He did. He soared. Among his sentences that flew out into the cathedral that day were some that struck me as creating a full picture of the father he had just lost:
A lot of people have been talking about my father as a legend, and a lion, and a giant, and he was a huge, huge man. But for me Dad was majestic because he was the simplest man I ever met. . . . He taught me that if you do the little things well and treat everyone with respect it can take you so much further than you ever anticipated. . . . My father was also the happiest man I ever met. I grew up with him telling me that my happiness made him happy. He never complained—about anything. . . . Everyone who ever met him wanted more of him. . . .
. . . My father had the deepest voice, the broadest chest, and the loudest heart of any man I ever met. I used to put my head on his chest as a kid, and his heart would be so loud I would have to move my head over to the right side of his chest. Your heart is still beating, I would tell him, and he would laugh.
Quinn’s voice broke from time to time, but he managed to control his emotions just when it looked like he would fall apart. Near the end Quinn said this:
Losing him has been hard, but it has already made me stronger. It is as if something inside me clicked. I used to be someone others might need to take care of, but now I feel ready to take care of others. My mom is no weakling, as you know, but I will take care of her. Maybe the old man is hitting me with those piercing eyes of his again. He doesn’t need to say anything. I can’t see him anymore, I can’t hear him—but I get the message: “Hey, buddy, it’s your turn. Get it right, kid.”
I dug my nails into my hands. I bit my lip. I clenched my teeth, I sucked in my stomach. I tried to breathe as rapidly as I could. I thought I might faint. I knew that if I let go at that moment I would never recover. I was overcome with wrenching grief. Then I heard a sobbing noise to my left. I turned and saw both Vice President Biden and Secretary of State John Kerry visibly moved. The vice president had his head buried in his handkerchief and was crying openly. (Later he would write Quinn a personal note telling him what a wonderful job he had done. “I gave my father’s eulogy,” he told Quinn. “Yours was better.”)
Then I realized that everyone in the church was crying. Everyone but me. Strangely I felt buoyed by the tears. I prayed. Please help me be strong. I began to feel stronger. Somebody heard me.
* * *
The clouds, when we walked out of the cathedral, were dark and low and menacing, and gusts of wind suddenly whipped around us, tossing my hair up over my head as we got into the car. I suddenly realized that Ben was not with us. How could that be? It was always Ben and Quinn and me.
The immediate family drove to Oak Hill Cemetery in Georgetown where we would leave Ben’s casket to be temporarily buried in a crypt in the chapel until I could build a family mausoleum for him and for us.
The chapel is a beautiful Gothic structure built in 1850 and designed by the famous architect James Renwick. Small—it probably seats fifty people—with lovely amber and gold stained-glass windows, it is set among trees surrounded by a garden and a number of tombstones, including those of Katharine Graham and her husband, Phil.
Once the family had gathered, Dean Gary Hall said a blessing over Ben. It was then that I completely fell apart. I went over to kiss the coffin and collapsed on top of it, sobbing so hard I couldn’t move. Slowly, the other members of the family left the chapel so I could be alone with him. How was I ever going to leave him there? How was I ever going to go on without him? How was I ever going to pull myself together for the reception? I had made it this far. I had to make it through the rest of the afternoon. I had to do it for Ben. Now more than ever, I wanted him to be proud of me.
It was always Ben who was there to console me. He would take my head and rest it on his huge barrel chest and put his strong arms around me and his big hands would caress my hair and he would say in his deep gravelly voice, “It’s going to be okay, baby.” Now there was nobody to do that.
Now I was alone. Ben was in this box I was lying on top of. Never to come out. He would not be at home to greet our guests with me as he always had been. I would greet them on my own. I had to. And I had to go, to leave. To leave him there alone.
* * *
The reception for nearly one thousand people was in a tent in the backyard. I went in the kitchen door and ran into the bathroom to check my face. My eyes were red and swollen, but at least there was no mascara streaming down my cheeks.
I made my way down the back steps to the tent and was engulfed by people the minute I arrived. From then on it was just a giant swirl of people and hugs and kisses and compliments on the service and somebody putting a drink in my hand and smiling and greeting and accepting condolences, murmuring thank-yous and listening to great Ben stories and turning to grab hands and hear more thank-yous. I was feeling dizzy from all the noise and the laughter and the faces. The one thing I remember thinking was that I had to concentrate on something to keep my mind off the fact that Ben had died.
Finally the last guests departed and I went up to the house with the family to relax. The food from the tent had been brought up to the house and put on the dining room table. I realized I was hungry and someone got me a plate and another glass of wine. I was sitting in the library on the sofa when Ben’s grandson Marshall, weeping, joined me. After kissing Ben’s coffin, he had stepped out of the chapel to compose himself. He found he was face-to-face with a majestic eight-point buck. Instinctively, he pulled out his cell phone and took a photo, which he showed me. It was Ben.
I was still sitting there when Donna came over and sat by my side. Suddenly, without any warning, a gigantic wail erupted from inside me. It was so full of anguish that it shocked even me. I didn’t know it was going to happen. I didn’t know where it had come from. Everyone in the room froze. It kept coming. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I had to let it out. If I didn’t, my body would explode. All that pain that had been building up for years and especially in the last week just kept pouring out of me.
Donna held me. Nobody knew what to do. There was no relief possible. Those who were in the living room came rushing in to see what had happened. I could hear whispers and flurries and questions. There was nothing to be done. I was inconsolable.
Finally there was a moment when I slumped over with exhaustion. There was nothing left inside me. No emotion. Nothing.
The next thing I remember was waking up in the morning, reaching over for Ben, realizing he was not there and that that’s the way it would be for the rest of my life. I got up, put on my black clothes, and went downstairs for breakfast.