ca 1982

6/21

2022

Lyons 1983

2022

1987

ca 2013

1976

5/2023

I had not seen Robert in-person in months. Possibly not since last summer? Last fall? There were surgeries. A wedding. Fear of Covid. Life changes. We visited more via FaceTime where I could show him around the house and hope to tweak his memory. And then on March 2, 2023 after months of stress and worry, I had a mastectomy. Another mastectomy; after nineteen years. I am still recovering from complications three months later. I was determined to visit in person on our anniversary. It was forty-seven years ago that we married. We worked. We had a child. We had a life that varied in plausibility, in acceptance, sometimes. We pulled and pushed in different directions, we aged. And somewhere along the line, when least expected, Robert changed: his mind, his body, his behavior. Little did I know that he was descending into dementia. His abilities were affected, his skills, his judgment. The changes blindsided me, alarmed me, took over my life. Just like the surprise of a cancer recurrence. I took care of his life during the same time that I took care of my mother’s. I forgot about me.

Evan and I no longer have to take a Covid test upon entering the facility. Nor do we have to wear a mask. I wore mine and unveiled my face to him at some point: he hadn’t seen my face since the final fall and hospitalization of late November, 2020. During our visit he stared. And stared. And said nothing. But I talked and talked and prompted and occasionally got a response, in fact I got a number of very appropriate responses.

Above, you can see photos of people at different times of their lives. Those lives melded together, married, travelled, had a family and eventually, when years are supposed to be golden, those lives fell into major disrepair. Unfixable, unyielding failure. The pieces are scattered all over the place like a fallen vase and there is not enough glue to put them back together. But, as jagged as the pieces are, though many pieces are missing, those that are left suffice … for moments.

Evan felt I should tell Robert what had happened to me, what I had dealt with, indicating that the gaps in visitation were reflective of a serious illness that is now behind me. I spoke. I don’t know how much he understood; he just looked, silently, as though trying to make sense of my words, with no affect.

It’s the no affect that always gets to me.

I told him about the water that still gets into the basement after a rain. That I’ve tried every repair. That the house should be watertight but it isn’t. That it is worrisome. And I said that, knowing he had so many degrees in architecture he probably would be able to brainstorm and figure it out. I said that. Yes, I did. I don’t know why but I keep thinking that all of a sudden he will be who he was and fix everything that has been going wrong.

He said nothing.

I said, “what advice can you give me?” thinking that he would continue to stare into my eyes and deep within.
And, he said, “exactly what you’ve been doing.”

Exactly what I’ve been doing.

I told him about what is happening in New York City, that we, as city workers, two people of a quarter of a million who worked to make the city great, who sacrificed for our jobs, who could have made a better living had we worked elsewhere; who assumed we would reap the rewards of the benefits promised for life. Our healthcare. And, that that was no longer the case: we were screwed by the mayor and the heads of many of the one hundred+ unions. I explained, he listened.

And he said, “that isn’t right!”

I said, “knowing you, you would have protested, if there was a tree to be cut down you’d be up the tree in protest.”I told him there was a big retiree protest. That the seniors weren’t going to take it.

I think I saw a smile.

I told Robert, two different times that it was our forty-seventh anniversary.

Both times he said, “Wow.”

He held my hand for a long period of time. It was that familiar grip. The handhold of many years ago, when we’d walk down the street manually attached. Then it changed. I would hold onto his upper arm, as though I were holding him up, protecting him as he walked stiffly. I always hoped someone would come over to me and hold me up.

I have learned to hold myself up.

I wasn’t sure that he knew who Evan was, so I told him, and later when I asked who this person is, pointing to his son, he said, “Evan.”

When I look at a “school photo” above, taken in 2011 and compare it to his recent photo, I am in denial. The change isn’t possible. My mind hangs onto the past.

Every year we would go out and have a nice dinner on our anniversary. This year I wanted to do the same. To celebrate my anniversary. My life; still being here, having survived cancer again, a huge complicated surgery and recovery (there is still another surgery to revise the reconstruction, next month).

So, I invited my son and daughter-in-law to dinner. I had an appetizer, a main course, a great peach sangria, even dessert! More than I usually eat in a week. Robert was not there but I still enjoyed it, in fact I loved getting out and having such good food, something I hadn’t really found joy in, in a long time.

I stepped out of myself and watched. It was OK to enjoy and celebrate. I had made it this far, there was more to come: Another part of an inexplicable journey that I will be making solo, holding my own hand.

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

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