Hemingway defined courage as “grace under pressure.” I’ve witnessed such grace first hand for the past 6 months since an MRI showed cancer and treatment couldn’t eliminate all of it.
I‘ve witnessed patience, optimism, humor and determination to enjoy each day he’s given. I haven’t seen Burton shed a tear.
I’ve cried enough to water a farm field.
Memories flood back.
Our first date seeing “Dr. Zhivago.”
Our honeymoon in Acapulco—the sunburn, Montezuma’s Revenge.
The first year of marriage when we existed on my journalism salary while Burton found his footing in real estate.
The caramel-leather Eames chair I bought with the commission from a fashion consulting job.
The births of our sons, both during a move to a new home.
Burton’s first Cadillac at 29, despite my protests that he was too young for such a fancy car.
The terror of flying with Burton as a new pilot.
Trips to Europe, India, Thailand, South America and more.
Purchasing farmland up north. The farm became our favorite place on earth.
Campfires at Carpenter Lake.
Burton’s starting his own real estate firm.
His masterminding the Wayne County Building restoration—establishing Detroit’s first public/private partnership. (He was the first suburban developer to venture back into the D in many years.)
His developing the 3rd Riverfront Towers apartment building downtown and his crazy idea to have Detroit Tigers star Cecil Fielder hit baseballs off the roof to a target on the Detroit River.
Our sleepless nights during several Detroit downturns.
His devoted advocating for my cancer treatment.
Burton’s support of my writing.
Winters in Florida; golf games played.
Awards Burton won.
People we met.
Boards Burton chaired.
So much to be grateful for.
Burton said to me recently, “We’ve had our day in the sun.”
I said, “We’ve had lots of them.”
These days victory for my fearless warrior consists of standing, pivoting and moving from a wheelchair to a bed or an armchair. He works tirelessly in PT. Victory is also, for a left-handed athlete whose left side shut down, opening a Molson Canadian with his right hand.
Most amazing: he doesn’t complain. He says, “You do the best you can with what you’ve got.”
Grace under pressure. I’ll say.
This once real estate titan and civic leader is willing to be seen in all his vulnerability. He welcomes visits from old friends. He gladly accompanies me to the country club where his picture as a young man hangs on the wall—a reminder of the year when he, at 40, served as one of the youngest presidents ever.
The psychologist I’ve been seeing since this challenge began helped me recognize the extent to which Burton has made me, our whole family, feel protected. Burton/Dad/Grandpa has protected all of us. He’s also been our provider. Thanks to his hard work, and that of our sons and capable colleagues at Farbman Group—our second family—we now protect and provide for our patriarch. Our old Eames chair currently serves as a bed for our nighttime aide, Angela, aka Angel.
In his own way, Burton still protects and provides. He asks if I’ve gained weight. (I lost 10 lbs. at the start of this crisis.) He worries about how I sleep. He insists on keeping cash with him. At first I protested—sensibly objecting there were so many different people in and out of the house. He insisted. I gave in. It’s who and what he is—caring, loving, generous. A protector and provider.
I chalked up a significant birthday this May. Not feeling festive, I decided to ignore it. My sister Anne, my shrink and my husband all insisted otherwise. Burton and I, David and Andy, Amy and Nadine and Anne savored dinner at Phoenicia in Birmingham, MI. Burton, our sons and their wives presented me with a ring—actually 3 rings linked together, symbolizing the linking of our 3 generations. The ring first presented was a model of the ring to come, once the size was determined.
Burton presented me with my actual ring when it arrived a few days ago. With his right hand, he slipped it on my finger. Realizing the implications of this moment, possibilities too painful to mention, I started to sob. One of Burton’s more endearing qualities is that despite his hard shell, inside he’s a softie. There in David and Nadine’s kitchen, tears unshed for himself fell from Burton’s eyes as well.
When my first book came out, Burton graciously agreed to participate in some talks with me. We became sought-after experts on relationships, until Burton requested we stop speaking out on the subject. But as a once-sought-after expert, I share with you an observation I believe is incontestable: Relationships are complicated.
Dinosaurs in our musical taste, we’re fans of the late John Denver. Our kids and grandkids roll their eyes when we ask Eric, our longtime farm manager and talented musician, to sing a song like “Country Roads.” We ask anyway. Lately the soundtrack to the experience playing in our lives is a song John Denver wrote and sang with Placido Domingo, “Perhaps Love.”
Perhaps love is like the ocean
Full of conflict, full of pain
Like a fire when it’s cold outside
Or thunder when it rains
If I should live forever
And all my dreams come true
My memories of love will be of you.
We’ve lived our joys and our sorrows out loud—as hundreds of friends, thousands of readers and millions of Oprah viewers know. But over 52 years there have been way more good times than bad. Plenty of days in the sun.
Thank you, my dear husband, for modeling grace under pressure.
For being an amazing protector, provider and partner.
My hero, my champion, my friend.
Thank you for showing me what love is.
You’re the love of my life.