It all began in March of 2009: we went to a recommended legal team on Queens Boulevard that was recommended by the United Federation of Teachers, aka, The UFT and had important papers put in place: our wills, powers of attorney, health care proxies, etc. We sat in a room and initialed page after page. The documents were signed off and notarized. We received the originals and made a bunch of copies. It was a big chore, an emotionally difficult chore and it was done. The documents were put in a container never to be looked at for years. Everything was in order for whatever might be but for whatever we knew would never come.

And then this:

Robert will be using up his Medicare coverage for the rehab center: I knew what was on the horizon, an application for a nursing him, ostensibly within the building where he is now. I spoke to our elder attorney, I wrote a check, I signed off on paperwork, and included, as instructed, the documents that the previous attorney, signed off on in 2009.

I was told this:

Your husband’s power of attorney was not fully initialed, therefore we cannot perform on his behalf.

As it turned out, he didn’t for whatever reason, initial three little paragraphs which would enable me to take medical control in case of an emergency or needed act such as this. Three little and very important paragraphs.

Have no fear! The elder attorney faxed over a letter to the social worker to get around this, indicating that there was legal work to be done, not specifically stating a nursing home, we didn’t want to upset him, and all he had to do was sign the document and the social worker would send me and the lawyer a copy. Easy peasy!

So, the social worker presented it innocuously. Robert, who had a magnificent handwriting, and artistic signature, and the ability to construct all kinds of calligraphy, had difficulty holding the pen. He refused to allow the social worker to hold his hand which is something they do, (backed by the lawyer): He scribbled.

He scribbled again.

I saw the signature. It was a microscopic version of his own.

The social worker apologized.

But it was his mark. It was Robert’s signature in miniature.

The attorney said: they will never accept this scribble for a signature, this won’t work!

But it is his mark, his signature.

We got nowhere.

Today, the next day…we were going to try again. I spoke to Robert earlier and he kept scratching on the iPad so his face was in and out of range laving me with a great view of his palm.

He said he does that because he is nervous.

I explained what happened, that we had to try again, to please cooperate: he responded calmly.

Today he is going to get the first haircut he has had in months: He looks like Chewbacca. I hope to God they trim his eyebrows. I have no idea where his glasses are. He gets agitated when I ask.

I am still waiting to finalize a meeting for this afternoon, the social worker just got back to me. Waiting for the lawyer.

Today is the day the teams meet at the rehab to make recommendations for the futures of many patients. Many will be going home, but not the person who once was Robert. That person was able to read books and magazines, take care of bills, do shopping, maintain the car, maintain himself, attend cultural events, get excited about dining out and exploring different ethnic restaurants. That person purchased every classical CD available and could converse on almost every subject. The man who wanted to go to every museum. That person read The New York Times cover-to-cover and occasionally wrote to the editor. That person would cry listening to Gustave Mahler’s Songs on the Death of Children (Kindertotenlieder). That person was passionate about photography. That person would send a hand made card with an art photo one of us took during the year,  to about one hundred people from his past and present.

That person was.

He is in there someplace.

Somewhere.