Morgan Freeman in “Solos”

It’s happening more and more. I look at this blank blog page and don’t know where to go with it. So, I fall into my usual stream of consciousness and let ‘er rip.

Sometimes I feel like I am getting there; to a manageable place where I can get up in the morning and face another day, head-on, in my new life.

Other days I feel broken.

I am.

There is no denying that the kicking and screaming part of the mourning process is hard, damn hard. It’s uncomfortable, nauseating, fear-based, horrifying and dreadful. I am mourning what once was: the good, the bad, the ugly: it is what fills everyone’s past. Relationships. Somehow we make peace with all that was ugly. Somehow humanity and forgiveness kick-in and the bad fades—don’t get me wrong, the bad is there, however, forgiveness sneaks in. It is the only way to cope, to make sense of it all. To peel away the layers of all that comprises the onion of your life and pick at it. There are tears, many tears along the way. Onions do that. Somehow, they dry and you can continue dicing, sautéing and move on with the meal.

Two people visited Robert within the last couple of weeks to whom I am grateful: my brother-in-law, and a former colleague. The former colleague called me and and informed me that there was a vocally disruptive roommate who was so loud and annoying that a conversation could barely be held. I complained to the social worker. I said that one of the occupants of the room had to be moved out. I followed-up. It never happened. It’s hard to get a call through, yes, I know that people are overworked, that there have been four Covid cases on other floors. I finally get through to the nurse on the floor and he tells me that they move the roommate out into the big room during the day where he can be watched in a group, because he is a fall-risk. Robert is a fall-risk but not moved. I said not to. The room he and his roommate are in is the closest to the nurses’ station and from there they can be monitored. That’s how it is done.

A year ago, in December 2020 Robert tumbled out of bed three times, two of those times he cracked his head, then landed in the hospital…then Covid, which he had contracted, reared its head…by January he was moved, after several weeks more in the hospital, to Riverdale, the Bronx for triage, eventually sent back to where he is now, a shadow of himself in mind and body.

Somehow, the fog he’s been living in has lifted a tiny bit and he is more communicative, usually on-point, and if he can’t come up with a response he will tell you: I am not processing, I am on overload. He knows when the questions you pose are too much. But he still manages to come out with his usual Robert-flashes:

Do you have a roommate?
It’s possible.

The aide set-up the ipad for a Facetime call and said, “Say something to your wife.”
Something.

What’s going on?
I have no idea.

What shall we talk about?
Flip a coin.

Do you remember how old you are?
Forty-nine.
If you were forty-nine you’d still be working.
Wow!

What got me more than anything, was that as I was leaving, a few weeks ago, post birthday visit, I said:
“Can you smile?”
And he just looked at me and said, what’s that?

I still don’t know what to make of that remark. But I do know: I have not seen Robert smile in over a year.

I received a message yesterday from a woman at the nursing home. It was planned that Robert was going to see an endocrinologist on Friday at such-and-such a time. I was supposed to give the go-ahead. I got through to the nurse.

“So what’s going on? The doctor has never called me?” Rocky went through his notes. Something about how Robert had had an ultrasound? A sonogram? (I assume they bought a machine into the room?). Something was found, something needs to be explored. Rocky admits that the doctor, who is new to the building, may not realize that Robert is on “comfort care,” aka palliative, that a visit to the doctor (he hasn’t been out in months and hasn’t worn regular clothes either) could open Pandora’s box. Robert would never be able to survive surgery if needed.

I am waiting for a call from the doctor, the nursing home physician to whom I have never spoken. I am writing this, I have put off my shower, as usual as I wait for calls. Waiting for calls is a state of mind and partial terror. I have wasted more time for calls back. And just to let you know if I hadn’t called Rocky the nurse, back yesterday, I might have been Waiting for Godot a whole day.

The other night I took my place in front of the television to continue watching an engrossing, series with an edge of futurism and sci-fi, called Solos. it just dawned on me how this series reinforces how alone we really are in the Universe, each on our own journey, on different paths.

You can watch the series here.

But, it’s the last episode that got to me. Watch the segment #7, called, “Stuart,” here.

In that segment, where famous actors give solo performances, Morgan Freeman asks, in his thoughts, “who are you if you can’t remember who you are?” He is an old man. He sits on the beach watching the ocean. He has dementia: Alzheimer’s. He has lost all of his memories. He has no emotional attachments. He becomes an observer who is bereft of what once was.

He is visited by a stranger who has his own agenda, but the point is, the stranger is able to transfuse the old man’s memories back into him. The old man morphs into an alive, thinking, feeling person, again. But he is only allowed to keep one memory.

I watch. I have a feeling of hope, then reality seeps in.

Robert can remember who he is. Robert has memories locked away.

If you could keep only one memory, which one would you keep?

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

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