Last Thursday evening was uplifting: it was the C.C.N.Y Alumni Service Award ceremony on Zoom. After the minutes were gone over and approved, six alumni members and two staff members received recognition. Robert was from the oldest class, 1969; his bio was read by another alumni member. I had no idea how the introduction would work and I hadn’t prepared an acceptance speech, so I, a speech major, did it on the fly, and augmented the bio which was based on Dalton’s nomination for the Architecture School Award. I went on to speak about Robert’s incredible amount of interests and qualities (see them here) as well as a typical Robert-anecdote (read it here )   ( and here ).

It was exciting to see so many people posting via the Zoom chat: words of congratulations, words of remembering Robert, cheering and applauding.

Yesterday, Evan and I visited Robert in the lovely garden setting adjacent to the building where we had visited before. Robert had been wheeled down and was waiting. Unlike our last visit, to me, he appeared less able to communicate but he listened.

I read him the letter I had received with his beautiful award.

Then I took out the box. “Nice box” he said.

I removed the plaque.

On one side of the heavy, bronze plaque, was CCNY, Shepard Hall, an iconic Gothic building. On the other was the personal engraving.

 

I took his hands and made him hold it, feel its weight in hopes that the kinesthetic would help him understand the importance. I showed him both sides and he read it. As usual, there was no reaction. But if I said, “Isn’t that wonderful?” He would acknowledge the prompt and say, “Yes.”

When visiting Robert, one must present a lecture: There might be a response.
“Look at this wonderful day to be outside!”

“‘Twas.” OK, that’s poetic.

You can say, “Rob, can you turn to the left to face both of us?”

“Yes,” he says but there is no association with action. So we move to accommodate him.

He is so diminished in size that I have to take deep breaths in order to speak. He is so diminished in age that I choke back my feelings and keep on talking to the once vibrant, brilliant, active runner who could never sit still. He is now a child.

A child who sits still. He stares at the speaker as if waiting to be fed.

We are under a portico at a large iron table, sitting on chairs that are so heavy they can hardly be budged, creating a show for his entertainment:

 

 

 

Act 1: Greetings

Act 2: Hand Holding established

Act 3: The award presentation

Act 4: Babble about the day and the garden

 

 

 

Act 5: A Yellow Swallowtail Butterfly is sighted

Act 6: Hearing the verbal interaction between patients and family members nearby. Thinking: How normal is that? The patient can speak and she’s likely in her 90s. How very lucky! (I become sad)

Act 7: Tell Evan to take a few photos

Act 8: I photograph Robert’s and my hands

Act 9: Evan speaks about the night before, going into Manhattan, his tickets to The Late Show with Stephen Colbert

Act 10: The wind-down, Gene the aide announces: 10 more minutes! I am thinking that I feel like I am in visitation with a prisoner.

Act 11: I ask Gene to state his name. I tell Robert, this is Gene, he is a wonderful aide and he is here to take care of you. I tell Gene about Robert’s award. He asks for more info. I tell him that Robert has three degrees in Architecture and that he was a science teacher for forty-four years. Gene is impressed. Robert is able to state the schools he attended. “Smart guy!” says Gene.

I just don’t want anyone to forget who this fragile, quiet man in the bed-wheelchair

once was.

 

 

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

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