I took this photo last year and it is part of my apple watch slideshow display: Everytime I raise my hand there is a new flower glowing in the light, changing in front of me, right on my wrist. It reminds me that the living need to be focused on, that things are happening that require attention, that life goes on.

We visited Robert the other day, as Father’s Day may not be an option for a visit. Robert doesn’t mark time or the days. i suspect that “time” is one long continuum and he has forgotten when it began. He is in his bed in the semi-darkened room, “resting.” All four beds are in use, the one across from him is often empty, its occupant, out of the room, engaging in some kind of activity.

I read, recently, that a patient in a bed somewhere, in a nursing home or hospital, had some kind of accident due to bed rails and this time when I visited I see they are removing the small side rails at the upper part of the bed. This makes me fearful. In addition, they lowered Robert’s bed considerably, almost to the floor, so that if he did roll out (remember what happened in December 2020 when he fell out twice in an hour and was unconscious, sent to the hospital …?) it would be less traumatic. Well, not really; if he did roll off the bed it would likely be the end. He is too frail and debilitated possibly to survive that kind of trauma. One side of his bed is now against a jut-out of the wall, but the open side, the side next to TV-guy on the right, is fair game for catastrophe. There is a night stand that is off in oblivion, behind and far away, there is one of those raising tables that is kind of close, but Robert doesn’t move on his own—at least I can’t imagine that he could; he’s just too weak.

When our beloved Chicago friends visited on Saturday, he said things like, “it doesn’t matter, what’s the difference” when asked if he wanted to be moved up, down, to the side. Is it depression? Giving up? The new standard of communication? Many times I’ll ask a question and he’ll say something like, “that’s OK,” in other words don’t bother.

I have not seen him smile since 2020.

Now it’s time for Evan and I to conduct ourselves in our visitation monologues and try to stimulate a bit of conversation. The Chicago friends experienced the intense handgrip and not being able to disengage. That happened to me a while back and I became alarmed. But when Robert gripped my hand this time, I wasn’t squeezed into arthritic pain. It was a more “normal” grip. And he let go when I needed to look for something. We spent a long time staring at each other in silence, eye-to-eye, no spoken words coming out from behind my mask…I delivered the news of the week in review and moved on to a new topic.

In attempting to go through stuff in our basement, to get rid of and reorganize the detritus of a lifetime, we have been finding treasures, endless boxes with magical contents. The process is beyond slow as we don’t know what to do with the endless things we find, and each thing we find takes us on another journey.

Boxes emerge from the basement and end up on the livingroom floor for sorting. There are the greeting cards I designed and produced in 1986; at the time I had watched 1/4 million of them roll off a lithographer’s press. I had about 80-40 pound cartons and because my distributor broke up his partnership right after I went into production, I had to move the inventory out of the SoHo distribution warehouse and into my in-law’s garage: I had to toss half the inventory. It was painful. Seeing one of those 40-pound boxes come up from the depths was odd. At some point I will branch off into sharing the designs here.

There are piles of very old magazines,  teaching equipment, a box of Urkel-O’s cereal from the ’80s, (Cheerios named after a television character, Steve Urkel)  unopened, (they sold on ebay) piles of old historical newspapers and whenever possible, New York City historical artifacts: Robert saw value in everything and felt that things should be saved so they could be excavated years down the road and teach the future about the past.

A box was brought up from the basement that he had labelled: Hicks letters, envelopes, phone bills. I still am not sure whether we were together when they were purchased but I have a vague recollection. We went to many stamp shows over the years and enjoyed rummaging through old envelopes: Robert collected postmarks, so envelopes were the draw. Evan inherited the collection and took it over, expanding it, making over 10,000 personal visits to post offices. That’s first-hand American history.

So, while Robert was holding my hand and staring at me, I told him the story of the box that came up from the basement. My first impression was, what the heck? Then: what is going on in this box? Then, why not  just donate it? That raised more questions.

I’d sit and watch television and the box would call to me. I went through a few letters, and then realized that we must have bought it because the family who sent and received the letters once lived in our neighborhood. Over 100 years ago.

Robert had no memory of our purchasing this collection, despite his labelling of the box.  Then again, he had no memory of his going to the hospital two weeks ago, either.

The box sat with other boxes on the floor and its presence was gnawing at me. The contents were dusty and gritty. It was a box of sneezing and coughing, of sooty hands: It is another family’s history. Someone in that family kept this full box and put it away for whatever reason. Likely the same reason that Robert saved everything: he wanted longevity, to live on and to be remembered.

After I told Robert what I had found I was running out of topics to expound upon. I asked him if he could have any food what would he like?

In his usual way of thinking, his eyes traveled from left to right and back, darting to find the answer though I did not expect one.

“Veal cutlet,” he said, and I was so surprised and said so, not for his response but the fact that he could process the question and retrieve an answer. And he said something like “Why are you surprised?” (That response even surprised me, it was so tuned in).

It’s because I never know what a conversation will trigger, how responsive he will be, how much he could access and communicate.

Look who’s here, I said when we walked in, look! And he turned his head toward the door and said, “it’s Evan.” I asked,
“Who is Evan?”

“He’s our son.”

And when leaving I said, goodbye until next time, I’ll see you next time.”

“That will be fantastic.”

Look for a new series coming in subsequent blogs.

John Mellencamp “Jack & Diane”

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

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