Although I was working to meet a deadline for my book No More Sad Goodbyes, I offered to help Mike and the director come up with a script for the show. Over our many years together, Mike and I had collaborated easily in a number of ways. I always sought Mike’s take on any writing project in process. He was an astute and insightful reader, able to point out what more was needed and what was redundant, to note the strengths in a manuscript and see what needed clarification. He might say, “I’m not sure Lynn would give in so easily here,” or simply, “I don’t know what’s going on here.” My books were better than they might have been because of Mike’s close readings.
Conversely, Mike had consistently sought my take on choices of music and how things fit together in a program. Did it make more sense for the third song to be last? Did there need to be a more lively number between the two ballads? Did his introduction say what he wanted it to say?
So we started on a script. Mike and I listed aspects of Harburg’s life that we wanted to be sure to include and songs Mike particularly wanted to feature. I wrote a rough draft of how that might work. The director met with us and quickly envisioned ways in which the show might be staged. Mike talked with other singers about joining in. Mike and the director decided to include a quartet of singers that would function as a kind of Greek chorus. We revised the script. The project kept growing and, to me, it seemed to grow more unwieldy with each passing day. We revised again. When we finally got what seemed to be close to a last draft, I hightailed it back to my office to finish No More Sad Goodbyes. But I took hope from the positive interactions Mike and I had during our script writing process.
There were changes in the cast—who would sing which part, who would stand where. Rehearsal times were always in flux, trying to accommodate musicians with other commitments. Rehearsals with the whole group were in evenings, but a few of the key players, Mike, the pianist, and the director, were often able to work in the afternoons at our home. Music, talk of programming, possible clothing, lighting, staging, all seeped through the doors of my office as I struggled to finish my manuscript on time. I began taking my laptop to the library, Starbucks, a park. These were not particularly quiet places, but the noise was not my noise and, although I loved “How Are Things in Glocca Morra,” I found it to be much more distracting than whatever might be playing at Starbucks.
Although Mike was enthusiastic and upbeat during Harburg rehearsals and related meetings, he was either distant and uninvolved with me, or using me as a sounding board to express whatever anger he was feeling—maybe anger at a neighbor, or the treatment of gays and lesbians. His continued rants against George Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld were frequent and vitriolic. I didn’t disagree with the content of Mike’s tirades, but the heat of his rage began to seem less about the Bush administration and more about Mike’s need to rant. One evening, in a crowded restaurant, Mike’s loud and heated Bush-critique ended with, “If I had a gun, I’d shoot George Bush!”
A few people looked over at our table then, fortunately, went back to their meals.
Back home that evening I tried to impress on Mike the dangers of threatening the president with bodily harm. His only response as he turned and walked away from me was, “Well, someone should shoot him.”
I don’t know which was worse, the anger, or the depression. I remember one morning in particular. It was around 10 o’clock or so, and I had just started working on what I hoped would be final revisions for No More Sad Goodbyes. Mike came into my office and flopped down in the big, leather chair opposite my desk. He let out a long sigh.
“I’m soooo discouraged,” he said.
“What about?”
“I’m just discouraged!”
“Can I help?”
“No! I’m going back to bed!”
With that he stomped upstairs. Later, when I went up to our bedroom to ask if he wanted to come down for lunch, he said he wasn’t hungry. He just wanted to stay in bed. The only place in the world he felt safe was in his bed.
Over dinner that evening, Mike’s mood slightly better, I asked if I might call for an appointment for him to see Dr. Carlson, our primary care physician.
“Why?”
I mentioned a few recent times when he’d said he wasn’t feeling well, and other times when he’d been terribly depressed. It couldn’t hurt to get things checked out.
Because I knew the happy face he always put on for doctors, when the day of the appointment arrived, I asked if I might go with him.
“Sure.”
As was his pattern, when Dr. Carlson asked how things were going with Mike, he was all smiles. Everything was going great.
“What brings you in today?” she asked.
“Marilyn wanted me to see you.”
Dr. Carlson asked me about my concerns. I told her that several times recently, Mike had complained of not feeling well, that he sometimes went back to bed after breakfast, that he was often depressed.
Dr. Carlson ordered blood work, prescribed an antidepressant, Cymbalta, and gave Mike a referral to Dr. Bertoli, a cognitive psychologist. Maybe help was on the horizon.
Mike took the Cymbalta religiously. He saw Dr. Bertoli regularly. He remained cheerful and upbeat with friends and continued to be mostly angry, depressed, and distant with me.
May 22, 2013
Dear Mike,
Today is your birthday. 73. I visited you yesterday, though “visit” doesn’t exactly describe the activity. You were in the house when I got there, in the hallway on your way out the front door, to continue the trajectory of your seemingly compulsive loop. I say seemingly compulsive because you did pause for a moment to give me a smile and a hug, a millisecond kiss on the lips. You spotted the cookies I’d brought in a baggy. Do you expect that routine now? Look for them? I don’t know, but you were eager to get one, and I handed it to you. A great big yummy-looking chocolate chip cookie from Trader Joe’s bakery. It made my mouth water just to look at it, but I am on my seemingly eternal quest to lose 10 pounds—it’s always 10 pounds, a reachable goal—and I restrained myself from gobbling the second cookie in the baggy. You reached for that one on your next round and I handed it over. You took a bite, then set it on the hallway table, picked up the first cookie you’d taken a bite from and continued your loop.
On your next round I handed you the birthday card I’d picked up at the dollar store. I used to be so careful with your cards, picking up first one, then another, maybe making a special trip to that midtown store that has enough choices to keep one busy for hours. I looked for the perfect picture, the perfect message, then took great care in the note I added on the inside. I know you used to do that, too. Today I grabbed something colorful that said “Happy Birthday,” added a quick “Love, Marilyn,” sealed the envelope and wrote your name on the front.
On your third round I gave you an enthusiastic “happy birthday” and handed you the card. You opened half the envelope, set it on the hallway table, took another bite of your cookie and continued your incessant trajectory. Next round you picked up the card, opened the envelope the rest of the way, left it on the table, picked up the remains of one of the cookies, set it on a shelf on the way back through, etc., etc., etc. Tedious, isn’t it? Tedious to write about. Tedious to read about. How much more tedious must it be for you?
I don’t spend much time wishing, and my wishes aren’t big. But I do wish you could sit still long enough for me to sit next to you on the couch and tell you I’ve done the best I can, and that I’ll be watching out for your care and comfort for the duration.
I know these letters are fruitless, but maybe as looping is your compulsion, writing to the now nonexistent you is mine.
Remembering better birthdays,
Marilyn
DESPERATE FOR A GOOD TIME
2007
Mike and I had taken our first Wayfarers walk back in 1990. We’d gathered a group of friends for a weeklong walk in the Cotswolds. Traveling in England before the
walk, then being guided through beautiful countryside and quaint villages, walking along with friends and having the luxury of relaxed time for extended conversations, was a remarkable experience. We were hooked on The Wayfarers. A few years later many of the Cotswolds’ group got together for a Wayfarers walk in England’s Lake District. In 1996, after exploring/enjoying Paris, we walked through the Burgundy wine area of France. In 1998 we did another Wayfarers walk in the Ring of Kerry area of Ireland. Mike’s music colleagues, also good friends, Bill Schmidt and Nancy Obrien, joined us on that trip.
Now, in 2007, in an effort to lift Mike’s spirits and to try to pull us together, I’d signed us up for another English Wayfarers walk, in Dorset along the Jurassic Coast. I knew the trip was a financial stretch when I’d sent in the deposit. Then, with the loss of Mike’s UUSS income, the expenses of the trip became more of a plunge than a stretch. But I was desperate for positive experiences with Mike and barreled ahead with plans for the trip.
In August, we met Bill Schmidt in London and from there drove to Rye where we’d booked three nights at The Mermaid Inn. Paris, the Lake District, Ireland, Germany—wherever we’d been there were places we’d dreamed of returning to “some day.” I suspect that’s a common traveler’s dream. The Mermaid Inn was one of those rare dreams come true. The inn was established in the 12th century and rebuilt in 1420. The hotel and the town of Rye were full of history, and Mike, something of an Anglophile, was in his element.
The three of us had a delightful stay in Rye. Besides being rich with romantic, historical lore, Rye is also a place of natural beauty, just 2 miles inland from the English Channel, at the confluence of three rivers. We climbed the steep and narrow steps of St. Mary’s bell tower, then an old ladder leading to the roof, where we had a stunning view of Rye rooftops, the surrounding countryside, the rivers, the sea. From that vantage point it seemed that all must be well with the world.
Four days later, the welcoming Wayfarers dinner at the Fairwater Head Hotel in Hawkchurch defied the stereotype of tasteless English food. Freshly caught and nicely prepared local fish, fresh vegetables from the garden, and some kind of toffee pudding that I wolfed down, telling myself the next day’s 8-mile walk would take care of the extra thousands of calories. As had been the case with every other Wayfarers walk, the leader (Muff) and the manager (Yannick) were both charming and knowledgeable.
The morning started with a full English breakfast and an easy walk to a manor where the gardens had been restored to the original 1920s design. The gardener led us past the grass tennis court, fountains, the large kitchen garden and “reflection” areas. He told us the “lady” was pleased with the house because, unlike their previous manor, this one had “only” nine bedrooms and was quite manageable—with servants, of course. After lunch Mike returned to the hotel saying he wasn’t feeling well. Bill and I continued on with the group to visit a former monastery with 900 years of history to its credit.
The next morning we visited Lyme Regis where the scene of Meryl Streep, wrapped in a big cloak, standing at the end of the Cobb was filmed for “The French Lieutenant’s Woman.” The weather was dark and the atmosphere as moody as it had been in the film. We were quite taken with it. Again, after lunch, Mike went back to the hotel, and Bill and I walked on. When I got back to the room in the late afternoon, Mike was napping. I showered, then woke him for dinner. He complained of not feeling well and dragged around until we got downstairs, where he immediately brightened and turned on the charm. After dinner Mike, with Bill at the hotel piano, sang several of Yip Harburg’s songs. They ended with “When the Idle Poor Become the Idle Rich,” which asks how we’ll determine who’s poor and who’s rich when everyone has ermine, and plastic teeth. “And when all your neighbors/are upper class/You won’t know your Joneses from your Ass-tors.”
The clever lyrics, Mike’s delivery, and Bill’s piano acrobatics left the gathered audience laughing and clamoring for more.
I, too, enjoyed their performance. They were, as always, relaxed and interactive with the audience. Both consummate performers. But I was finding it more and more difficult to reconcile the Mike I experienced in private with the charming public Mike.
Not once on the Wayfarers part of our trip did Mike complete a full day’s walk. He might sleep in in the morning, then join us for lunch and the afternoon trip. Or go back after lunch with Yannick while the rest of us walked on. I brought him aspirin, felt his head, brought him tea. Asked what more I could do for him. What was wrong? He just didn’t feel well.
I don’t remember now what set it off. We were in our room at the hotel, getting ready for dinner. We, with the exception of Mike, had walked shady, wooded paths to beautiful gardens with panoramic views of the sea. I was telling Mike some of the high points. “I’m sorry you’re missing so much of this,” I said.
“I don’t feel well!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Mike pulled a clean shirt from his suitcase and turned to face me. I could tell by his scowl he was angry. I wasn’t sure why.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with someone who likes me!” he shouted, seemingly out of the blue.
“I want that, too,” I told him.
“Much of the time I have the feeling that you don’t even like me!” he said.
“I often feel that with you, too,” I said. Then I added, “I do like you. I love you. I totally love the wonderful, caring, funny, good listener, good friend part of you that drew me to you in the first place. Honestly, though, it is hard for me to like the angry, martyr-ish side of you that I’m seeing more and more often.”
“Sorry!” he shouted.
We finished getting ready and walked in silence to the dining room, where Mike warmed up. He became more attentive than usual, how’s the fish, do you want to share a dessert, you look pretty tonight, etc., etc. But I was left feeling heavy and sad, wondering where we were headed.
The next afternoon, again without Mike, Bill and I sat looking out over the English Channel and talking about him. I told Bill of my frustrations and concerns, that it seemed Mike’s glass was more and more often half empty. We spoke of Mike’s reluctance to take care of himself—exercise, lose weight, the usual. We talked about Bill’s worries for one of his sisters, how she always looked at things in the worst possible light. Bill said he had noticed more of that in Mike recently.
“Maybe we can do ‘Accentuate the Positive,’ tonight,” Bill laughed.
“Please!”
After the walking tour, we spent a few days in London. I got sick. It gave more credibility to Mike’s earlier illness, and I was left feeling guilty for thinking he just wasn’t trying hard enough during the walk.
I skipped an afternoon of sightseeing. Mike brought tea up to the room on his return. For the time being at least, we were gentle with one another.
We’d been home from the England trip for three days when Mike came downstairs to tell me of an email he’d received from the pianist.
“She’s quitting Yip Harburg,” he said, his expression hovering somewhere between surprise and confusion.
“Quitting? Why?”
“She says it’s not fun anymore.”
“Really? What else did she say?”
“Just it’s not fun anymore. We can’t do it without her. I don’t know of another pianist here in Sacramento who could do it.”
“Strange,” I said. “Do you mind if I read the email?”
“No. Go ahead.”
I went upstairs to Mike’s computer and read a very lengthy email from the pianist. She said how frustrated she’d become. They would decide on the way a particular number would go, she’d spend a week practicing, and then with the next rehearsal Mike would change everything. He would say one thing and do another. She told him how much she had always enjoyed working with him—what a fine, sensitive musician he was. She said how she had struggled with the decision, lost sleep, worried, didn’t want to lose his friendship. Sh
e said she’d wanted to say all of this in person and had tried to call several times since our return, but we weren’t answering our phone, nor was our answering machine taking messages. She was sorry, but the project had become overly stressful for her. It simply wasn’t fun anymore.
“Not fun anymore,” Mike said, shrugging his shoulders, ignoring all of the other details of her email.
Whenever Mike told others that the pianist quit, he would simply say, “She said it wasn’t fun anymore.”
Maybe he just didn’t want to bother to explain the details of the pianist’s dissatisfaction. What seems more likely to my now, though, is that he was losing, had lost, the capacity to process such details.
The bit about not answering our phones or callers being unable to leave messages was puzzling. I called our home number from a neighbor’s phone. Our number rang and rang and rang. No answering machine picked up. I asked the neighbor to give me five minutes to get home, then to call me. She called, but the phone didn’t ring at our place. As I thought back over the days since our return, I realized that all of our phone conversations had been with outgoing calls. When I checked with AT&T, they found that there was some glitch in which we could call out but no one could call in. I didn’t know how long it had been that way, but it was certainly an added complication to uneasy communications.
The next day when we returned from running after-trip errands, the answering machine now working, there was a message from the director. She simply said she would no longer be working on the project. Mike called the others who were involved and said they would need to take a hiatus. He hoped to pick things back up again soon. Then he went upstairs to bed.
In November 2007, Mike went with me to New York for the annual Assembly on Literature for Adolescents conference. I was busy most of both days, presenting, participating in workshops, and catching up with other teachers and writers with whom I’d become acquainted over my years of attending these conferences. Mike was on his own during the day.
'til Death or Dementia Do Us Part Page 5
