What? I haven’t written about Robert in so long? Since August? I was flitting with butterflies, I was picking tomatoes, I was  enjoying my flowers, I was fundraising for breast cancer. I have shaken off any guilt and stayed put. I haven’t seen Robert in person for, well, months. And, I have been putting off writing about him. I have, in fact, been trying to take a break and relieve myself of stress.

But I do communicate with Robert via Facetime when someone in the recreation department can come in and set it up.

Two springs ago, they would wheel Robert down to the lobby for a visit on a kind of bed. He’d wear a mask, you’d wear a mask. You would talk from behind your mask. He would stare. I don’t recall any “conversations,” any spontaneous talk, just the staring. I have documented every visit.

He had Covid a second time. Getting words out of him has been tough for so many months. But, I am thinking, could it possibly be that over the last six months or so there has been improvement? He looks like he has been eating better. He is more communicative. He has, perhaps, emerged from a Covid fog. He has two stents in his legs to improve his circulation; can it be that his brain is functioning better?

So, here are two recent Facetime calls. I am trying to make sense of my notes. I would stop mid sentence to write things down, let me piece it all together.

A few weeks ago as I was setting up my viewing system he said: “I don’t understand a thing you’re doing!”
“What do you think about?” “I think about YOU.”
“Do you think about Evan?” “Occasionally.”

I was telling him about all of his former work equipment and how there are so many boxes of science lab stuff, and how I got rid of a bunch of chemicals. I added that they probably don’t even do science labs anymore…he said, “I guess we hold onto it until it comes back.

I told him I was on top of everything. “My sweetie. My sweetie.”
“Evan is getting married!” I reminded him. “He’s his own person, he can do whatever he wants…if he gets married he gets married.” He added, “it looks like everything is under control.”

I told him a story about someone he knows. He responded: “She’s a nut. We can be nuts together. Two good nuts deserve each other.”

He would look at the iPad screen and say, sometimes a few times during the conversation: “I can see myself.”
So he seems more observant, more tuned in.

I told him I have been ordering pasta from Borgatti’s in the Bronx. He thought for a moment. “You know,”  I said, “the pasta store in Little Italy we would stop at on the way home from the New York Botanical Garden.” He seemed to recall. “they make the best ravioli,” I added, to which he said, ” I can’t wait to try some when I get home.”

“I need you to eat and drink as much as you can.” That doesn’t sound like a problem.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

On another Facetime call…

He was clapping. The aide was setting the iPad on the table, I said, “who are you applauding?” He said, “Our dialogue.”

“Do you get bored?” “Yes,” he said.

“What do you think about?” You.

“Now, if you could do anything, what would you want to do?” Kiss you.

I said, “I think your blood is flowing better.” He said, “always nice to have blood flowing.”

I set the phone  on a stand and pulled up a concert on Youtube. A work by Othmar Schoeck. Robert knew about so many composers that were virtually unknown. He’d sit in the car when arriving home and wait until a symphony was over, take down the info and eventually order the CD.

You can see my sharing methodology and Robert listening. At the beginning of the video you can hear the background noise of the nursing home.

“Do you like the music?”

“Love it!”

He made several comments about the visual: “It’s landscaped nicely,” “It’s landscaped perfectly.”

Then, “It’s a nice piece of music…who is it by again?”

“Othmar Schoeck.” He repeated the name and recalled it independently a few minutes later.

He said: A piece I have to listen to when I get home.”

This morning I had one of my semi-waking dreams. Robert and I were in France. Probably Paris. We were walking, looking at modern architecture, talking to people. I somehow lose my phone. I observe that Robert is strong, he is standing, walking talking, communicating. We are in the middle of dinner with a man and a woman and Robert says he has to go. I whisper as aside to the man we are dining with (I think we were at a restaurant) that Robert has been very sick and has not been home for almost two years. I remember feeling exhilarated, like a miracle had occurred, and that if he needed to leave to rest, well, that was OK.

What was so startling was that Robert mentioned coming home twice. These were the first times he verbalized about the future. But the truth is, he needs round the clock care and much more.

He is not coming home.

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

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