Over the last few weeks I have been speaking to Robert via FaceTime calls. It takes the stress off of me: I don’t have to sit in a hot car and take a Covid test before entering the nursing home, and, in addition, I have a houseful of stuff with which to stimulate his brain. I am finding that since the stents were inserted to open clogged arteries, he seems to be more alert.

When I get a Facetime call from the nursing home, I greet Robert, wait for the din around him to die down and begin, or try to begin some kind of communication. He knows who I am and says my name, but his demeanor never varies.

I put my phone on a stand and position it opposite my computer and pull up music from YouTube. This is kind of a joke because Robert owned just about every piece of every genre of music that ever was, on a vinyl record and then on a CD and YouTube feels sacreligious emanating from a computer rather than his towering Vandersteen speakers.

I start the music and poke my head around the phone to catch a glimpse. He is watching with rapt attention.

Last week, I asked him if he was enjoying the music. It was Beethoven’s 7th. Not Grieg or Mahler or Shostakovich or any other of the hundreds of composers he has stocked on shelves. Just Beethoven.

And he says, “the music is overwhelming.”

To change it up a little, the last time we spoke, I decided to play the documentary about The Automat. I figured that would be something he could sink his teeth—or his nickel into. He was able to watch about twenty minutes of it before they needed his iPad, so about two thirds of it remains. And then I can ask if he remembers an Automat in his childhood neighborhood, and whether he remembers the food. Anyone who has eaten at The Automat is a member of a private club that can tell you about the best macaroni and cheese, baked beans, pies, and let’s not forget my fave: fish cakes and spaghetti.

I asked him if he recalled the exhibit we saw in about 2012 about “Lunch Time” at The New York Public Library. I don’t think he was sure. So, here I am, a teacher again, trying every which way to stimulate a student and provoke interest and learning. How much is retained is another story.

So many times I ask questions, I hope for some special response or affect. Sometimes I win, sometimes I am disappointed, and sometimes I tell myself I need to accept what is.

But for Robert, when I ask how he is, he will say something like, “Fine, thank you.”

For him, his life is all automatic.

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

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