Better to Have Loved 

By Bud Pharo

A story of love and loss, that has parallels to Dante and Beatrice woven throughout. 

Whenever she felt up to it, I would wheel Anna down to the pond behind the hospice facility to watch a pair of mute swans who made it their home. Even on her most trying days, their grace and beauty lifted her spirits and calmed her anxiety in ways the end-of-life therapy regimen had not. She marveled at how they seemed to be performing their beautifully choreographed aquatic ballet just for us.

Not wanting to disturb them, she whispered, “Look at them, Rob; they’re just like us—perfectly matched.” As we watched silently, I thought about how our perfect match almost never came to be because, at the awkward age of 15, I was too afraid to introduce myself.

That summer, her family moved in just down the street. Though I’d only seen her walking past our house, she held me spellbound. She was striking, but it wasn’t so much her looks as it was her quirky style and apparent self-confidence that intrigued me. Vintage tortoiseshell glasses gave her an air of sophistication that conflicted with the carefree look of fatigue pants, a Suzi Quatro tee, and a paisley newsboy cap from which flowed a blond braid that cascaded down the front of one shoulder. She defined her style as “bookish-punk.” Unlike most teens, she wasn't going out of her way to fit in and was quite comfortable being thought of as different.

She would sit on her visually impaired neighbor’s front porch and read to him for hours, never glancing at her phone. When she smiled at something he said, she radiated warmth and compassion. How I longed for the day her warm, compassionate smile would fall upon me.

I shared my feelings with my grandfather, who was in a nursing home recuperating from a stroke. Throughout my life, he always provided sound guidance without judgment. As a retired English teacher, he would invariably find an analogous situation in literature.

“Did I ever tell you the story of Dante and Beatrice?”

“I don’t think so.” Watching his face light up as he entered storyteller mode helped me ignore the facility’s pervasive antiseptic odor.

“It’s a story about love at first sight.”

Now, he had my full attention.

Grandfather recounted how Dante had fallen in love with Beatrice the first time he saw her, and despite only meeting her on one other occasion, he maintained a profound but unrequited love for her his entire life. His love of Beatrice inspired many of his greatest works, including The Divine Comedy.

But at 15 years old, the thought of a lifetime spent harboring unrequited love for someone I had never spoken to didn’t seem very appealing. I was torn because love at first sight seemed so clichéd—like part of a mediocre coming-of-age movie—yet, in my heart, for her, I knew it to be true.

And just like most of my grandfather’s stories, this one also had a moral. “Don't become a modern-day Dante.” His eyes twinkled as he continued, “Maybe it’s just a teenage crush, or maybe it’s your destiny; you’ll never know unless you meet her.”

Buoyed by his inspirational message, I set a modest goal of meeting her by the end of the summer but never found the nerve to bring it to fruition.

Fortunately, when the school year began, our bus driver had assigned our seats together, unwittingly doing what I could not—enabling me to meet my Beatrice.

We rode in polite silence for the first few weeks, neither mustering enough courage to start a conversation. One day, sensing something was wrong, she asked, “Are you okay?”

I sighed. “Not really; my grandfather passed away over the weekend.” My voice cracked. She took my hand and looked into my eyes. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I’d heard he was a wonderful man; would you like to tell me about him?” Her gentle touch sent a surge of electricity coursing through my body. Had I been standing, I’m certain I would have fallen.

Overcome with a mix of conflicting emotions, tears welled in my eyes. “He... he was an amazing storyteller.” I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to hold back the tears, to no avail. Instead of being embarrassed by the weeping young man beside her, she gently dried my tears with her sleeve and held my hand until I regained my composure, and we talked the entire way to school and every day since.

Our friendship—initially built on trust and sincerity—eventually blossomed into love. Grandfather had been right; she was my destiny, and like Dante, I knew I would love her forever.

Shortly before our 10th anniversary, Anna began experiencing nausea, severe headaches, and uncontrolled limb movements. An MRI revealed multiple brain tumors. For the next two years, she fought courageously, but the surgeries, numerous rounds of radiation, and chemotherapy proved ineffective while exacting a heavy toll. The woman I loved was slowly disappearing before my eyes, and I was helpless to do anything about it.

While I sat next to her hospital bed, she said, “Did you know Beatrice was only 24 years old when she died?”

“Yes, I remembered reading that Dante was devastated by her loss.” I fluffed her pillow, hoping to avoid where this was going—then I saw the hospice information on the side table. I pointed at the folder. “Where did that come from?” I said, more harshly than intended.

“I asked the nurse to set up a meeting with the hospice coordinator,” she said with a pensive expression.

I was stunned. “But what about the new trials the oncologist mentioned? I think I saw her by the nurse's station; I'll see if I can catch her before she leaves.” As I rose and started toward the door, she motioned for me to hold her hand.

“Do you remember when you told me how your dog, Scout, began to hide and started distancing himself from you because he knew, instinctively, that he was dying?”

“Anna, please don't talk like that... please,” I begged in a quavering voice.

She squeezed my hand. “Rob, I don't want to hide or distance myself from you. I want you to be right there with me at the end. And like Scout, I, too, know that I am dying. Therefore, I wish to do so in a dignified manner, not on an operating table or hooked up to a ventilator. I will miss you dearly, and I will always love you, but I just can’t do this anymore—it's my time.”

I knew, in my heart, she was right. As my tears flowed, I kissed her hand, held it to my cheek, and, like long ago on the bus, she dried my tears and tried to ease my pain.

Today, while visiting our “friends,” as she referred to the swans, she said, “You see, they really are just like us—in love and perfectly matched for life.”

Her wistful comment brought gentle smiles and more tears, for we both knew our time together would soon end. We spent the next blissful hour holding hands, watching the swans, and wishing our love story could have one more tomorrow.

After Anna’s funeral, I returned to the pond to tell our “friends” that, sadly, we would not be coming back.

Now, just a solitary swan swam alone.