Two years have gone by. Time moves from the present to the past.
The world turned inside-out, blown away, over, out, down. I ask myself, how is it possible? Of course the answer is: it is possible, get used to it. People ask, “How is she doing?” I understand that they are being nice, polite, concerned, curious. They also ask, “How are you doing?” By this time I lurch with emotion. The granite foundation of my old farmhouse wobbles and it starts to rain. The roof leaks. “I’m missing an organ. There is a gaping hole where it used to be.” I don’t speak this. I think it to myself as the only way to describe how I’m doing. How do you think I’m doing? I want them to go away. Leave me alone. Only don’t go too far, I may need your comfort later. Not right now.
Have you had moments in your life that seem like markers? They aren’t particularly dramatic, just simple, ordinary moments, and you think, ‘I’m going to remember this moment for the rest of my life. ‘Nothing especially special. But special for some ordinary reason. I’ve had these moments happen, what makes them so memorable is that they aren’t connected to events in any way, just that you seem to have woken up for a few seconds. Awakened from the hum, the droll, the numbness of the ordinary, to suddenly see the whole field all at once and to know that somehow this is IT . And here you are, smack in the middle of IT and you are awake to the transience of it all. I’ve had these experiences. I can remember three in particular. I was thirteen, it was summer, early morning, sitting on a cement abutment beside the town’s post office. Bike parked at my feet. (Probably just finished my paper route). And sipping on a bottle of Pepsi Cola (further evidence of paper route, collection day, aka payday). The sun warm on my face. My small town was still. Or maybe I was still; wrapped in the moment of silence. I recall thinking, ‘I’ll remember this moment the rest of my life.’ Why? I dunno. I just knew it. Another such moment, age about mid-thirties, on my way to work. Came up behind my mother who was also driving to her work at the small TV station WMTW, Poland Spring, Maine. She saw me in her rearview mirror and waved. I flashed my lights. I had a ways to go to get to my office in Portland. She turned in to her parking lot and I tooted my horn and waved goodbye. See you later. This was the woman, my mom, who had taught me at age five on a long drive to Canada, how to harmonize to the song “You Are My Sunshine”. I had the sensation that I was not going to always see her later, that someday she would be somewhere else in time, and I would remember this moment for the rest of my life.
Yesterday I had another such moment. I had arrived at the nursing home just after breakfast and I found her among other residents, sitting in the day hall, a gray-haired old woman, overweight from medications, slumped over in her chair, asleep. I thought: this is her now, my wife, my petite, dark haired, hazel-eyed, chirpy-girl wife of fifty years. My high school sweetheart. When I woke her she smiled her special-for-me-only smile and she said, “Okay. Let’s go.” And she took my hand and we walked to her room. Later, as I finished rubbing her feet and massaging them with lotion, in that special acupressure spot to soothe her, she slept. I had a few minutes of absolute silence. I held her naked feet in my hands. Staring out the window at the early spring trees, showing young green leaves, being moved by a breeze . A distant, busy parking lot, and then the moment happened. I looked at her sleeping face. This woman looks the same to me as she has for half a century. I think, marriage is a contract, love is not. It has no boundaries. I will remember this moment for the rest of my life.
On the day that we took her to the emergency room, she asked, “What happened to us?” It broke my heart. Really, it broke. Not into pieces like a plastic heart, or one made of candy. It became all squishy, soppy, throbbing, and it ached. Later, I mentioned this to my daughter. She said, “Dad, Alzheimer’s happened.”
~(for Janis)
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