November 18, 2022

 

Robert looks at the ipad.  I say, “can you see? One eye is closed.” He opens it.

Years ago he was seeing double; perhaps that was a sign of things to come. We had a special prescription made to correct that. A prism was embedded into his lenses.

I have no idea where those glasses are: in one of the many places he was in over the last couple of years: the hospital, the nursing home, the hospital again, triaged in the Bronx with Covid, back to the nursing home. In one of the many drawers next to his bed in the several rooms he has been in. Maybe they are home. Does it really matter?

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“What am I doing?” he answers. “Being pensive.”

I do my usual blathering, it’s verbal stream of consciousness to keep things going. Sometimes things pour out out of me and I don’t know from where in my soul I found them. Take the theme of this blog. Take the song. It comes. It’s retrieved from some place without even thinking. It just comes together.

So, I yabber on. I try to evoke memory. “Remember this, remember that? Remember how you used to ______ fill in the blank?” Think banking, shopping, bills, insurance, household…remember? He liked to do everything. He liked the control.

And then I say, “well, you don’t have to worry about all that anymore.” And he says, “I try not to.”

But I do. I worry about all this stuff each day and keeping tabs on everything, on getting things done. But truth to tell, about two years ago when things really began to fall apart, including health, including the above list of to-dos, I began taking things on and now all of that is mine.

And I hate it: It means I am a grown up.

But, here’s the kicker: my streams of words, as usual, took me to the past: It’s all I have. My words went to travel, to vacations; years of Europe have been left behind and traded for time in Massachusetts: the Cape. The Berkshires. I get lost in the reverie and thoughts of beaches and mountains and sunsets, and summer culture. The images are my words.

And I say: Remember all of those summers in Massachusetts? Remember the Berkshires?

I kick myself because there were summers I actually got tired of traveling. I just wanted to stay home and sit on the deck with a glass of something dripping in condensation. The years progressed as did Robert’s nameless disease that is blanketed by the word “dementia.” His driving was getting sketchy. I was afraid he’d lose control of his right leg. The very last trip, in 2018, I did not relax for a minute. I was hypervigilant in thinking I could control a major accident. Maybe even death. I never wanted to go back to the Berkshires or travel anywhere. I didn’t know at the time I would get my wish. He fell twice on that trip.

So, when I asked, “do you remember those trips?” He answered. “We’ll do it again.”

Something went through me, stabbed me with those words. “We’ll do it again.”

Where is his mind living?

The call was about to end and the aide needed to charge the iPad.

“Goodbye, I said, “I love you.”

It took a while and then he responded, prompted by the aide: “Goodbye…I love you.”

 

November 30, 2022

I had arranged a FaceTime for the afternoon. The head of recreation is not as skilled in making a patient as comfortable as the aide can. Instead of raising Robert in the bed and properly propping the iPad on the wheely table, Robert remained on his side. The iPad was handheld and unstable.

Robert might have been sleeping. His lips looked dry. He was kind of stuporous.

I read two greeting cards to him. Here’s one from Wendy, I said.

I asked if he knew who Wendy was. He said slowly: “She’s my sister.”

“There’s someone else on the call, I said, do you remember cousin S?”

“No, but I’ll take your word for it.

My friend was visiting. Evan was over. We all sang to Robert.

Because—

Yesterday, Robert turned seventy-six in that nursing home.

It was the third birthday that he has been gone.

It was the beginning of three years away.

The recreation-iPad-guy listened to the whole exchange.  We all said we loved him. Rec-guy prompted.
Then a moment … and then …

“I love them back.”

 

 

 

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

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