Death from loneliness

V. Death from Loneliness

Justyna Kochanowska z Białowąsów 1961 - 1986

The solid granite monument gleams with its black mass among the other graves. It is always lavishly decorated with flowers, and candles glow. The surroundings are always clean and tidy. Someone regularly sweeps away the smallest specks of dirt and dust with a broom, plucks barely sprouted blades of grass and weeds from the soil, sprinkles salt on the ground, and wipes the face of the stone slab, which bears the deceased's name and surname in gold letters, with a cloth.

The monument is large. Lofty and wide, it dominates the neighboring ones. It gleams with newness, gleaming in the sunlight. Similar monuments stand in a completely different part of the cemetery. But its appearance also surpasses those others. After all, none of them were custom-made until Ełk. Only this one succeeded.

The doctor determined the cause of death immediately and without a shadow of a doubt. It was malignant leukemia. It took her three summer months. She went to the hospital in early June and died on the penultimate day of August. She didn't find the strength or will to fight the disease, though others succeed.

Five years earlier, her loneliness began. Before that, she hadn't found it within herself. Perhaps she hadn't searched carefully. Back then, she didn't have the time for it, didn't pay much attention to it. Life was short and short, with even less time to fill it with life. She was cheerful and humorous, cheerful, always smiling. She coped, even though fate brought her more than just good times.

She loved her parents, but not as she would have liked. It was a love more out of decency and duty than from the heart. A mother couldn't be kind to her children. One felt a cold indifference coming from her than maternal devotion. She was stern and unapproachable, as if afraid that if she showed even the slightest shred of maternal warmth, they would perceive it as a sign of weakness. Because although she appeared strong on the outside, inside she hid an inability to show kindness to others. People didn't like her. She always imposed her opinions on them. She never listened to anyone fully.

My father was a complete failure. If it weren't for his wife, he wouldn't have been able to support the farm and the family. She kept the household in check, managed the money, and raised the children. He wasn't young when he met her. It was probably his last chance to break free from his bachelorhood. People married him more than he did. He didn't really drink, didn't swear, or wander around at night. He was a calm man, too calm, because he let himself be dominated by his wife. He never had his own opinion, never cared about anything, and had no worries. He dutifully followed his wife's orders. He worked in the fields, felled trees in the forest in winter, and fathered children. That was his life's mission, and that was the extent of his responsibilities. His wife took care of the rest.

She had three siblings: two older sisters and a younger brother. The children grew up under their mother's strict eye, without freedom, without love, without understanding. Each had a specific set of responsibilities to fulfill. Otherwise, they would get a beating from their mother. Their mother would beat them with a rubber iron cord and not give them supper. They were expected to run like clockwork, to be absolutely obedient. Any insubordination was punished, no sense of duty was reflected in rewards. It was a maternal system of upbringing: punishment for every possible disobedience and zero rewards.

She never had bad memories of her childhood. The hell at home was compensated by a multitude of close and distant friends. Because despite the complete lack of warmth at home, Justyna was full of a simple sensitivity that easily endeared her to others. Their shared moments allowed them to forget about home, provided an illusion of a good world, which for Justyna grew into reality.

Then she went to high school in Gołdap. She met new people, made new friends. She met Roman Kochanowski. She learned about love. She learned about it, because how else was she supposed to know how to love? For the first time in her life, she felt like someone truly needed her, that someone finally cared about her feelings. When he was hospitalized after a moped accident, she was there for him. When his mother died, she was there for him. When he took his final exams, she was there for him. When he was drafted into the army, she went to see him. She began to live more for him than for herself. She forgot about herself: school, the aching joints, sleep. But the more she lived for him, the happier she felt. "How can I think of myself when my Romek needs me!" she would dismiss people's comments about their relationship.

They married when he returned from the army. She was twenty years old and had great hopes for great happiness.

He turned out to be a common scoundrel. He no longer had as much time for her as before. He disappeared for entire nights, returned drunk, and started arguments over trivial matters. The house was an empty space, a voluntary prison for her, a hotel and restaurant for him. A place of cold raptures, a confluence of all her loneliness. The spell was shattered like a soap bubble.

She thought a child would change everything, that it would bring new strength, hope, and possibilities to their life together. Even if it didn't happen, at least she would have someone to live for, a purpose. It was worth a try.

The doctor's diagnosis sounded like a death sentence. "You will never be able to have children. Anatomical reasons preclude any treatment"—these words she heard every night when, lying next to her husband, she couldn't sleep. She decided to talk to him. He didn't understand her pain at all. "Too bad. We won't have a child," he replied indifferently, then turned over and fell asleep.

She was left alone with the burden of infertility. She found no support from her mother. "It's God's punishment!" she said. Her father was completely unconcerned with her fate. Her sisters offered superficial comfort, her brother's behavior was immature.

Her school friends had no time to meet. One excused herself with a sick child, another with the pressure of studying at university. She was left completely alone with her problem. "I think I have to learn to enjoy my solitude among people," she tried to pull herself together.

"You have to help me. With your love, you have to help me!" she turned to her husband again. He stood up, took his hat from the rack, and left. He returned as if nothing had happened two days later. He never wanted to discuss this again. Whenever she brought up the subject, he would leave. He would return a few days later, usually drunk and dirty.

And shortly afterward, she fainted in the kitchen. And then again in church. Finally, an ambulance took her from the house. At the hospital in Ełk, they diagnosed advanced leukemia. Three months later, she died. Her husband was at her bedside. "Don't forget me!" she pleaded with him. "But, God forbid, don't treat me as equal to your daily worries, pleasures, and responsibilities. I don't want to interfere with your life, I don't want to slow it down in any way."

His wife's illness shook him. It didn't save her life. Perhaps he appreciated what he had lost. He erected a beautiful black marble monument for her in the old cemetery section. Now he comes here every Saturday. Even though he's married a second time, even though he has two children, he still remembers Justyna.

"It's easier to remember someone in death than in life," he once admitted. He was strangely right. His mother and father, his sisters and brother, his old friends, all find time to visit Justyna's grave.

Death by loneliness forces us to remember others.