Old Love

Memories and shared experiences as deep as the ocean accumulate over fifty years

We only have one word for love, yet love is vastly more than one feeling or experience, so we modify it to better express its nuances. Thus it is we say, “first love” and “young love” when we speak about love in adolescence, implying its fresh excitement and energy. We use “selfish love” to describe love’s grasping and greedy side. “Love struck” is used when we refer to the power of its all-consuming nature, and “in love” is how we explain the gravity-well of love’s hold. Honestly, I’ve never heard anyone use the term “old love,” but that’s what I felt after fifty years of marriage.

When we were young, our love was hot and sexy, and our youthful vigor and affectionate natures were well matched. We each had a young daughter from a previous marriage, and the love and devotion we felt for our children was also something we shared. Our children are now 54 years old, and our parental love never lessened.

Over the next twenty years the children grew up and we became middle aged. The passion of youth was transferred to lives of work and responsibility. Jobs and careers changed, as did the places we lived. I can safely say we both loved working, and we were a solid partnership. From the beginning, trust was foundational; we never had separated bank accounts nor divided our money. Gratefully, neither of us fooled around or gambled; we loved each other too much for any of that foolishness.

Another twenty years flew by, and we qualified as old. Proud grandparents then, both of us were sorely tested; medical problems emerged that required hospitalization, surgery and recovery, particularly for Norma who had six major surgeries over a twelve year period. For quite a while, mine was the love of a caregiver, a very specific and quite demanding sort of love, but we got through it.

And then, as if by magic, we passed into “old love.” I say by magic because the passage of time moves quietly but relentlessly without assistance. Although our minds felt young, our bodies were not, and yet we remained very affectionate. Love making was considerably less frequent, but kissing, hugging, and the comfort of touch were a daily experience and increased. While taking a walk or watching a movie on TV, we’d always hold hands and cuddle.

Old love endures, memories and shared experiences as deep as the ocean accumulate over fifty years. Repeated stories become mythology, a nostalgic history of archetypes. Awareness of what’s ahead as the end of life approaches invests old love with a bittersweet quality that settles itself between comfort and sorrow, every hug enjoyed under the encroaching shadow of death.

Being old is widely misunderstood. Aging induces a physical but not emotional weakening. To the contrary, passions and feelings do not diminish, they intensify. Petty preoccupations and the dramatic Sturm und Drang of worldly events dim in importance as the fire of inner life glows inextricably hotter, even as the vitality of flesh fades. For me, losing Norma is like a case of phantom limb syndrome; a piece of me is gone, but I can still feel it, sometimes a faint stir, sometimes a sudden lightning bolt of sensation. Old love, alas, is not for the faint of heart.

We each go out as we came in, alone, the blessings of love a welcome but brief respite.