When I visit Robert I hope for a spark, something to prove that he is still present. During my last visit I went into my usual soliloquy: I do my late night TV-type monologue and wonder how Johnny Carson survived for so many years. It ain’t easy. The visitor feels compelled to keep a conversation going when there is no one to converse with. Robert hasn’t initiated conversation in months. Apparently, that part of his brain is unable to latch on to the words he might want to say. He doesn’t ask for anything. He is no longer moved for visits. He is turned on schedule to prevent pressure wounds, he is locked down by his diminished body, on his bed, his domain for months, unable to press a button, to navigate the television, to take a drink. He is at the mercy of others. There but not.

I enter the room with his back to me. There is an iPad propped up in his line of vision and he is listening to a loop of classical music on youtube. It is familiar; one of the same loops I used to play for him.

I take him on fantasy trips to places we’ve been. We go to Orvieto: we see the black and white marble walls, Siena-like-Cathedrale-interior glowing in the light of the sun. We marvel at the Signorelli frescoes, at the depictions of heaven and hell in the apse: I dwell in both heaven and hell.  We marvel at the gold-mosaic façade and sit for hours watching it on the stone bench that is across the piazza, attached to an ancient building; the seats are worn into dips of stone from centuries of people resting and marveling. We stay at The Hotel Maitani around the corner for the third time: the staff comes out and says: Ritorno! when we arrive in a small, hot, rented car having driven up the tufa to revisit that place, that fantasy place we wanted to retire to.

Do you remember ——-fill in the blank?

“Yes,” hes says.

“Let’s go back,” I say. I wonder what his mind thinks, I wonder if he thinks I am serious. Are we really going back to Orvieto? I think he must be thinking. I wonder what is going on in his head. I wonder at my own words, if I understand that the proposal will never happen, for him, anyway, nor for us. The concept of us has been breaking apart for years, a slow disintegration of a mindset paralleling the slow, constant deterioration of his body.

I call his sister and tell him she has been trying to call. Her name appears on my phone’s screen and he reads it with a prompt: Say hello!

Hello! he says and says her complete name. First and last.

She begins her monologue of gratitude. A eulogy. We’ve all been feeling the pressure to remind him, to thank him, to try to discuss with him. He no longer can discuss but he listens. His wires are tangled in his language center. There are broken synapses that used to connect with speech. He requires a verbal poke to respond and even with a prompt he may not. It’s complicated.

Are they taking good care of you?

Yes.

It’s time for me to go. His sister says goodbye. “Goodbye, Robbie.”

Rob, say goodbye to Wendy.

“In what language?” he says, the old sense of humor raising its head.

“In any language.”

“I have to go now,” I say. “Goodbye, Rob, see you soon, I love you!”

No response, never any affect.

“What do you say, Rob, I said goodbye. I love you.”

 I love you more. 

📌The series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey

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