When I wrote Chapter 23 of my memoir (Re)Making love, I dissed this flick with Hillary Swank, Gerard Butler and Jeffrey Dean Morgan in this way:
I said: “P.S. I Love You is a 2007 film with Gerard Butler and Hillary Swank, two actors I adore in a rom-com not worth analyzing, that I don’t own, but that gave me pause. Sure, Gerard Butler (also in The Ugly Truth: great title) stopped my heart but then so did Jeffrey Dean Morgan who closes the deal in this flick.
“P.S. I Love You relies on the death of the character Butler so effectively plays with wry intelligence and wit—not characteristic of the letters that drive the film—so a bit out of sync there. But death and love cause me to write a P.S. on Let the Rom-Coms Roll.”
This past week my love had open-heart surgery to fix an asymptomatic aneurysm in the ascending aorta of his heart. The week has been one of the hardest in my life, right up there with “Lifeboat” on the death of my son. My love didn’t die, but the process of recovery from the surgery that seemed to be going so well, ended with my driving like a hellion to the ER at Cedars Sinai because that dear heart, wounded and repaired, was angry about the insult and went into sudden and seemingly devastating AFIB less than 24 hours after his discharge from the hospital. He had to be readmitted after a torturous day in the ER—and to boot, when I had to go home, my car wouldn’t start—dead battery. The kindness of the folks who run the parking for the ER found a way to jump-start my car so I could drive home to a sleepless night while the cardioliogists figured out that his heart had to be shocked the following morning to correct its rhythm.
That night, with no sleep, possible, I bought the flick P.S. I Love You and re-watched it as I contemplated that I might lose the man who makes my life worth living.
I listened to every line of dialogue. Lines like these, many of them in the letters I’d dissed and words from Holly’s (Hillary Swank) mom, played by Kathy Bates:
At Gerry’s (Gerard Butler) parents’ home—parents who have lost an adult child—Holly gets one of those letters from Gerry that he’d written for her and arranged for her to get for a year, that impossible year after his death: “I remember the first thing you said to me: ‘I’m lost.” I have a terrible sense of direction, am always lost and my love knows to turn right if I ever suggest left. My love has drawn a 3-D map for me of Los Angeles to help me figure out how LA is laid out: stuff I oughta know but don’t. Gerry says, “You’re grand, but you’re going the wrong way.” Hello Mary!
“Oh so you’re an artist,” Gerry says even though Holly doesn’t know yet what art she makes. Hello again, Mary, who did know that writing was her art, but had to wait to get to it full-time.
Gerry says, “You impressed me with William Blake and all your grand plans. I had no idea what you were talking about.” Hello me and my love.
Holly says, “I must create something or be enslaved by another man’s. I will not reason or compare. My business is to create.” “Did you make that up?” replies Gerry in a letter. “No, William Blake,” Holly answered when they’d first met. Holly said, “If you don’t figure out the ‘something’ and it doesn’t matter if it’s a work of art, or a taco or a pair of socks. Just create something new and there it is.” Hello everyone who reads this!
Gerry recites in the letter that he knew the right girl with this thought: “That kissing her would be the end of life as I know it.” Our first kiss, for sure!
I’ve been thinking about how alone I would be without my love—I know that’s trite. Then I watch and listen as Holly’s mother tells her, “You know the worst thing for a parent? Second only after losing a child–“ Hello, Mary. And shortly after that: “The thing to remember is if we’re all alone, then we’re all together in that too.”
I had to think about that—Don’t we all.
I won’t spoil how Holly gets these letters over a year’s time. I will say this: How important those letters were. Snail mail! Ollie here on Substack is bringing them back.
My love survived this frightening surgery. I say this to him: I love you “truly, madly, deeply.” Another fab flick if you can find it.
Do you know what the hardest three words in the English language are? “I was wrong.”
I was wrong about the letters in the movie P.S. I Love You.
Love to all of my subscribers,
P.S.: Don’t forget that I can help you write a love letter that will not be trite, memoir, family history and fiction with a Masterclass.
P.P.S: I love you!
Love, the grief of watching a beloved suffer, the essential words we want to and should express, spoken from the heart. You touch on so much here. I could relate to all of it. Forgive me for taking a moment to make this about myself. Cardiology called the other day to inform me that my heart has been malfunctioning, needs to be explored, and needs to be shocked (hopefully that will work). This, after a few months feeling as if I am disappearing into the shadowland. The pacemaker and other procedures are failing. Everything you wrote here, I could relate to as I watch my wife cope with my decline. Please give your husband my best, to keep his focus on life, on your heart for strength. I encourage you to draw strength from his love. The love you share, your faith in one another, your shared connection to life are a gift that embraces the tear and the smile. To your readers, learn from Mary's experience. Speak from the heart to those you love, your families and friends. Write those snail mail letters. Our lives aren't movies. We are words in the book of life that we write and share. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your beloved, Mary.
Your dear husband, your North Star, 💫 and beating heart on the outside of your body. Feeling the myriad of sparks of thoughts traveling through your being. May his recovery ❤️🩹 continue, slow and steady. Mays yours too. Both matters of the heart inviting our attention. Gentle and loving care, Mary. 💞