This is the photo that keeps me going when I visit Robert. I rewind my Universe about ten years.  He was not perfect, believe me he had his flaws, but he could walk. He could talk, He could work. He could shop. He could laugh. He could discuss. He could teach. He could listen to music of his choice. He could drive.

He could feed himself. He could get into and out of bed independently. He could use a phone. He could.

Now he can’t.

Many people do not understand when I try to describe graphically, but with sensitivity, what it is that Robert can and cannot do. And in terms of what he can do, I am never sure except empirically, scientifically: through observation.

There were Covid cases in the building and I will not put myself in harm’s way, so, it was about three weeks since my last visit and after doing hours of errands, stressful errands from a dental appointment (only to learn I have a rare condition of dental resorption which will not end well) to paying the Elder attorney the discounted fee of $5,000 to set up still another trust, to a visit to and handing over a check to a nursing home for almost $7,000.

And then. Up to Robert’s room. The floor was quiet; I never know what I will find, what I will see when I get off the elevator. I say, hi to a staff member and then turn right. Robert is near the nurse’s station where they can keep an eye on him.

His back was to me. I assumed he was sleeping. He was not. His roommate, however, was snoring away. Robert was doing what he usually does: he just lays there. His hand grips the short upper guard rail of his bed. Maybe it makes him feel secure, maybe he thinks it will prevent him from rolling off the bed which is how a lot of this travesty was exacerbated late last December: he fell, twice in an hour, injured his head and eye, was unconscious, was sent to the hospital, again. It was soon after that I learned that he had contracted Covid within the place from whence he came. He was never the same after that. And he was never home again. In fact he’s been gone since late November.

I still find this all inconceivable.

There was no place to sit. The one chair in the room was covered with stuff near his roommate (Arthur, who, by the way can talk but I have no idea why he is there), and would have created a major upset if I had tried to move it.

I stood. I looked. I gingerly pulled the curtain to give us the illusion of privacy.

I stared at the photo above Robert’s bed, the one you see above. I talked to the photo. I directed my words to it, because that is Robert, not the stranger in the bed. I babbled. I did my monologue conveying wishes from neighbors, the news of the block. who is leaving, selling, whatevering. And in doing so I feel more and more deserted: by my mother who passed about three weeks before Robert was carted off by the EMS that November, by my health, (which has recovered but now there is the dental issue), by some friends, by my savings, by my son’s engagement and future.

By Robert.

So, I got angry because Elizabeth Kübler-Ross says, it’s OK, it’s all part of grieving. I flew my pissed-off flag and tried to get a rise out of Robert, who is staring at me. I wedged myself on a tiny space on his bed, looked up at the photo and then at him.

I tried to talk but all I could do is cry into my mask. I am not sure if at that point he knew I was trying to swallow my weeping.  I had to wipe my eyes. I tried to speak but my voice was faltering. I wanted to scram and curse at him: I wanted to smack him. He left me with a huge mess of collections, redolent of his father who, as a person who was alive during the Great Depression, saved everything, and not neatly. To wit: if he didn’t read a copy of The New York Times, he would toss it into a 4th bedroom and close the door on a mountain of yellowing detritus ultimately leaving it for others to clean up after his sudden death.

I have a similar situation here,  a mountain to climb, research to do in order  to toss, to attempt to sell, to seek help with. to get rid of. ALL of his school materials from the beginning of his career remain, all the lessons and text books he made with is students as no published book ever made the mark. I don’t know, I just don’t know where to start.

So I started here: I told Robert. I told him first that I was grateful for all he has done, for the culture, the trips, the amazing things we partook in. But then a monster roared up and I channeled the voice of a pissed-off wife who has been scorned by disorder, disarray and stuff left behind and I want to kill him, right there in his nursing home bed.

I stopped and looked back up at the photo.

I wiped my eyes. My mask was getting soaked. He was still hanging on to the rail. He wouldn’t let go and he didn’t know how to hold my hand. I was not sure that I even wanted to.

I told him I am doing research to sell, to unload, to clean out, all that stuff he collected, hoarded, thought was valuable, am trying to sort through without the help of Marie Kondo, who, if she ever visited my home, would run from it screaming.

The thousands of Playbills and programs you saved by tossing them onto a shelf are mildewed. No one wants them. Do you understand?  I am twisting the proverbial knife. I am negating his belief system, leaving him with nothing to hold on to.

He says yes.

I wanted to wound him, to stir him up, this silent stranger who left me, left a mess, bequeathed me with tasks that I have been learning how to tackle, thus giving me another full time care-giving job along with all the paper work and responsibility. I am sick of it. I did it for my mother for more than ten years. Why is this still a part of my life?

Because it comes with the package.

And I told him, I laid it on him, I told him about the chores, the messes, how we are emptying his storage room, also, a room which is also stuffed from floor to ceiling and costing me, for years over $300/month to maintain because there was, no more room in the house. He is the son of his father.

And I was angry, so angry and not letting him get away with it, not letting him escape my wrath and sorrow.

And he said something spontaneously, in a low voice that I didn’t catch between Arthur’s snoring, the nurse’s station and his ebbing strength.

What did you say? I ask.

“You are doing a good job.”

 

 

 

 

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

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