I watched him check that watch onstage countless times during our 20-year love affair. A seasoned performer, he wore it with the face turned inwards so he could check how much time had elapsed since he took the stage. As his most-devoted fan, I knew what that glance meant. He was thinking how much time he had left.
He bought the Casio Illuminator in a cramped New York City electronics store during the 1990s. It was a compact black device with fuzzy LED numbers secured by a rubbery plastic band. It was not a status symbol. It told time and sounded an alarm in a high-pitched … beep-beep.
In October 2000, my husband used it as a morning alarm. We woke together to its incessant beeping. He would make coffee before driving our sons to school. I would shower and dress for my corporate job, and he would bring me a cup.
On October 4, I left my work cubicle after spending the morning writing catalogue copy. It was a beautiful day so my coworker and I took a lunchtime walk. We were walking back across the parking lot when I saw him standing outside the building. I couldn’t read his face that day, he looked older. My coworker walked inside. At first, he was silent. Then, in a barely audible voice, he said: “I have cancer.” I let out a stream of expletives before stopping myself. I hugged him tightly saying, “I’m so sorry. I’m here for you no matter what happens.” He didn’t respond.
For the next 11 months, the Casio watch would beep continuously. Beep-beep when the chemo-drip was supposed to end, beep-beep to take a nauseating mouthful of nutritional supplements, beep-beep to swallow a pain-relieving Oxycontin.
A year later, I still awoke to its alarm. In those twilight seconds between sleep and awareness, my mind was confused. I was scanning my memory searching for the cause of my mental distress. And then it would hit — a tidal wave of grief and sorrow. He is dead, I am a young widow, and our 8 and 11-year-old sons are fatherless.
I put his watch in my Lucite jewelry box where I could see it from our bed and reminisce. There were wonderful days in the past when it played a part in our romance. He would set the alarm before we napped in the afternoon at a casino hotel where he was performing later that night. As the sun set, we would wake from our nap and enjoy the comfortable intimacy only shared by two longtime partners.
One night after his death, I collapsed into our bed intolerably exhausted from child-rearing, work, and worry. The bottle of wine I was drinking each night barely helped to ease the pain. I was hopeless and bereaved. I felt completely alone until I heard it clearly… beep-beep.
His watch continued to beep for the next 13 years. When I felt discouraged, beep-beep. When I was frightened, beep-beep. When I need to believe, beep-beep. There was no schedule, just a random occurrence with meaning.
My sons heard it too. Many years later when they were both home from the same college, I was watching their alma mater’s championship game on my bedroom TV while folding laundry. They stopped at my bedroom door to say they were going to a friend’s house. I remarked, “Look, your team is winning because I’m wearing your school’s jersey. Your Dad would be so proud of me because that’s something he would have done. At that precise second… beep-beep. We all heard it.
I don’t remember exactly when the watch stopped beeping. It was near the time of our youngest son’s 21st birthday. Did the battery give out, or was it about time?
