Waiting for the signal to change, a gold 2005 or so Honda Accord turned left from Gold Country Boulevard onto Sunrise. Sunroof open, man sitting tall behind the wheel. Your area. Your car. Your posture. In that millisecond of recognition my heart stopped, quickened, then fell. How is it that you can be absent for so long, then suddenly come to me in the guise of a stranger in a strange car? And how is it that I still expect you? Whenever will my unconscious feeling self catch up with the conscious thinking self that knows you are gone, that you are never coming back to that corner, that car, that posture?
Unlike the old days, I now have the cheapest cable service possible and so don’t find much of interest on TV. But I allow myself the luxury of a basic Netflix membership. Last night I watched “The Iron Lady” on a Netflix DVD. I’d missed it when it came out in 2011. Having never been a fan of Margaret Thatcher’s politics, I was mainly interested in seeing it for Meryl Streep’s Academy Award-winning performance. The movie is framed by the older Margaret Thatcher in the early stages of dementia, with flashbacks to her earlier life and the high and low points of her reign as prime minister. It was a compelling production with any number of poignant scenes, but the scene that brought me to tears was when the older Thatcher was going through her long dead husband’s closet, determined to finally get rid of his clothing. I started crying when she buried her face in his tuxedo.
How hard it was for me to send your tuxedo to the consignment shop. Your tuxedo, so indicative of you, still with a hint of your scent if I buried my face deeply enough into the jacket. So hard to part with.
My tears didn’t last long. The scene soon shifted and with it my attention. Like life.
I still have your pitch pipe in the middle drawer of the desk that used to be yours, but that I now use. The desk from my old office was much too big for my present scaled-down life. Matt now has my old desk in his office in Walla Walla. But your pitch pipe, in its little red velvet pouch, still sits in the middle drawer. It takes up so little space and still, in a way, holds the spirit of your lips, your breath. Your clothes, though, are gone.
Tomorrow I’ll bring cookies, and a picture of Lena and her band, and a picture of Subei at graduation. You will likely look at each one for just an instant, then put them on the hall table on your way out. Maybe you will pick them up again on your next round, then place them on one of the living room shelves as you complete a loop. I don’t think the pictures will mean anything to you, but who knows? I’ll give it a try. Just in case.
Still missing you,
Marilyn
CHRISTMAS IN LAGUNA
2008
A week or two before Christmas I asked Mike to take the Honda in for servicing, in preparation for our trip to Southern California.
“I’m not going,” he said, but he took the car in.
The Saturday before we were to leave, I got out our suitcases from the garage and suggested to Mike that he pack a few things.
“I’m not going.”
Sunday, while Mike was at church, in addition to my own bag, I packed a bag for him. I know a lot of wives regularly pack for their husbands, but this was a first for me. Long trip, short trip, it didn’t matter. Mike always packed his own bag. He was particular about his clothes, and also about how they were folded in the suitcase. In the past, in preparation for some trip, I’d spread the clothes I wanted to take out on the bed, and Mike would pack for me, too. Not lately, though.
Early Monday morning, I carried our suitcases downstairs and began loading the car with gifts. Mike stood watching.
“Can you grab a few Christmas CDs?”
He disappeared into the house, then returned with a box of 10 or so of our favorites. We plucked a few treasured ornaments from the tree Mike had decorated more than a week ago, and grabbed garland and a string of lights from a box of unused Christmas things.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Mike said.
“Just for a change.”
“I’m not going!” he said, standing stiff, fists clenched, head thrust forward as if preparing to fight.
“Matt and Leesa and Mika will be there.”
“I don’t know why you’re doing this!” he said, still stiff and tight.
“Grab a few bottles of water for us, would you?”
He gave me a long look, then turned and went inside. He returned with four bottles of water and some potato chips.
“Thank you.”
I put my arms around him and held him tight.
“I love you. This is going to be a good time,” I told him.
“I don’t think so,” he said, but when I got into the driver’s side of the car, he walked around to the passenger side and got in.
Several times on the way down Mike repeated his “I don’t know why you’re doing this” mantra. Each time I named each person who would be there. As was our practice on trips south, we stopped for lunch at Harris Ranch and switched drivers. I held my breath as we approached the freeway overpass, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t take the northbound onramp in the direction of home. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as he passed the “North to Sacramento” ramp and took the entrance south toward Los Angeles.
We got to the Aliso Creek Inn mid-afternoon, unpacked and went shopping for a Christmas tree. The one we found was scrawny in comparison to our usual trees, but it was the right size for our small condominium living room. To the accompaniment of Mario Lanza singing “O Holy Night,” Mike carefully unwrapped the Lladro Baby’s First Christmas ornaments he’d bought for each grandchild. They were white porcelain, an infant in a stocking, with “Baby’s First Christmas” and the year printed across the top of the stocking. Ashley, 1991. Kerry, 1993. Subei, 1995. Lena, 2001. Mika, 2006. He announced each one as he carefully placed it on the tree.
After decorating, we went to the Scandia Bakery and ordered a birthday cake for Dale—chocolate with a gooey strawberry filling, white icing decorated with red poinsettias and “Happy Birthday Dale” in big, red letters.
“I always do the dessert,” Mike said.
“I know. But this will work, just this once.”
The others began arriving the next day and the mood was festive. The Southern California warmth was a welcome change from the winter chill of our home territories. In the afternoon we all walked to the beach. There was a little park between the public parking lot and the beach, and Subei and Lena took Mika down the highest slide at the play structure. When they tired of that, the two older kids slid down sand dunes as if on snow sleds. Uncle Matt showed Subei a particularly impressive soccer move and threw his back out. It was reminiscent of the time Uncle Dale’s back took a hit while accompanying young Matt down one of those giant slides at the fair, the kind you ride down on burlap bags. What great, self-sacrificing uncles we have in our family!
We found shells at the water’s edge and talked of past times at Aliso Creek. This group, plus longtime friends of ours, had celebrated our 20th anniversary here on this beach. Dale, though, was sick in bed on that long ago night. After champagne and hot dogs around the fire pit, Mike and our friends, also singers, went back to the condo and serenaded Dale with rousing Baptist hymns, claiming there was healing power in the lyrics none of us any longer believed in, “Power in the Blood,” etc. Maybe it worked. The next morning Dale was up and about, feeling fine.
We’d been at this same place in the summer of 1995, when Sharon and Doug got word that there was a baby waiting for them in China. There was basic faxed information, including a picture of a tiny baby girl with a mass of black hair combed into what looked like a mohawk. We’d gathered around the picture, Sharon, Doug, Dale, Marg, Corry, Mike and I, laughing and crying, already loving the baby whose name we didn’t even yet know. Mike took off abruptly, then returned an hour later with a frilly red baby dress and matching booties.
Then there was the Fourth of July when Mike nearly got arrested for fireworks on the beach. And the time Doug saved me from drownin
g. Later, whenever he’d found me to be particularly annoying, he would wonder aloud why he’d been so quick to drag me from the water. We were amused and buoyed by layer upon layer of past times at Aliso Creek, even as our present experiences were tainted by changes in Mike.
Mike and Mika built a sand castle, and later watched “Singin’ in the Rain” together. We all went to dinner at Las Brisas, another place that was laden with memory. The mood was light and festive, and Mike finally seemed to accept our shift in tradition.
Christmas Eve morning I drove Mike to John Wayne airport. In the pocket of his jacket was the printout for a rental car, return flight information, and lists of times when he needed to be at church.
“We won’t open one single gift without you,” I promised.
“When do I get back?”
“I’ll pick you up here, outside Baggage Claim, at 1:30.”
“Promise?”
“Of course, I promise.”
I told him I loved him, that I hoped the concert would be wonderful, asked that he call once he got home, and kissed him goodbye.
All seemed to go smoothly. We talked that night around 10:30. Mike was pleased with the concert—said the choir had sung beautifully and that they sailed past the weak spots he’d been worried about.
Christmas morning, I managed to sit parked for a few minutes outside Baggage Claim and was waiting at the curb as Mike walked out. He was happy—eager to get back to the Christmas festivities. By 2:30 we were all gathered in the funkily decorated Aliso Creek living room, ready to open gifts.
Several years ago our Christmas drawing practices had shifted from buying gifts for whomever we’d drawn, to donating to a charity in that person’s name. It was always interesting, sometimes inspiring, to learn what charities had been chosen as gifts. Heifer International, National Wildlife Federation, Sacramento’s Loaves and Fishes, SPCA, Save the Children, etc., etc. We still gave tangible gifts to the grandkids, but they also participated in the charity drawing. It seemed to be more in keeping with the spirit of Christmas than the overblown indulgence earlier Christmases had morphed into.
In the evening we put candles on the decadent cake and shifted themes from Christmas to birthday. It was a full and happy day. Later that night, in bed, Mike allowed as how it had been a good Christmas, but he wanted next year to be back at our house.
“This was just a one time deal,” I assured him.
I was nearly asleep when he said, “I never did find the headlight switch on that rented car.”
So … 12 miles to the church at 7 p.m., already dark, to 12 miles home around 10 o’clock, no lights. Driving a rental car was another item that needed to be crossed off the list of things Mike could safely do.
May 23, 2012
Dear Mike,
Nancy Obrien died early this morning. I am so saddened by this news. Nancy, 62. Always so full of life, and energy, until just three months ago, when something in her body turned against her.
We should be wrapped in each other’s arms, crying together on the martini couch, remembering some of our many times together, your growing friendship with her when the two of you were new to the Los Angeles Master Chorale. It probably wasn’t until that walk through the Cotswolds back in 1990 that I, too, began to treasure her friendship. We should be crying together, and remembering, until our hearts lighten with laughter over some of those silly shared times. The little antique stores she would ferret out, to your delight and my dismay. And tea shoppes, with “biscuits” and clotted cream. Her way of finding a Catholic church to attend no matter where we were on a Sunday. We could be comforted by her practice now, knowing that she found solace in her faith to the very end. That’s true. Jeanne D., who was with her all along, assured me of that.
It seems I can almost hear her singing “Danny Boy,” as she sang it in that little B&B on the last night of our walk through the Ring of Kerry. Bill accompanied her on the dining room piano. That may have been the first time I truly appreciated Nancy’s voice and musicianship. I’m afraid that whenever there was occasion for a little spontaneous music, I mostly only had ears for you. I know, “Danny Boy” is thought to be clichéd, especially by sophisticated musicians, but that night at Lough Leane was far beyond a cliché.
We should be saying these things to each other, Mike. There is no one else in this world with whom I have such a wealth of shared memories. I miss you so much right now.
Later today I will visit you at Porto Sicuro. I will see the picture of you and Bill and Nancy taken at her 60th birthday party at the Arcadia arboretum. That was the last trip you were able to make to Southern California on your own, and even then it took a lot of maneuvering at both ends to make it happen. I made all of the travel arrangements and saw you with ticket and ID in hand to the end of the security check line. Bill was waiting for you when you got off the plane in Burbank. The thought had been that you would rent a car while you were in town, but it became more and more apparent that you couldn’t get that organized. Bill ended up taking you to see David, and the Sandboms, and generally watching out for you while you were there. You had already lost a big chunk of yourself by that time—I had lost a big chunk of you. Still, when I walk into your room and see that picture of the three of you smiling happily, I will long to have even that much back.
Marilyn
DIMINISHING NEST EGG
2009
Winter and spring. Since the second year of our marriage we both realized we couldn’t maintain a shared checking account. Mike was big on immediate gratification and would charge clothes and household items that I thought were beyond our means. I wanted to pay for everything when I bought it, not use credit. The result of our different approaches meant that on payday our money was already earmarked to pay Bullock’s and Robinson’s for Mike’s previous month’s purchases. Endless discussions, attempts at budgets couldn’t solve these differences because “budget” was a concept lost to Mike, and our different approaches to money was a source of great frustration for us both. The only answer seemed to be separate checking accounts, and that mostly worked for a long time.
From my teaching income, and later book business income, came all basic household expenses, food, utility bills, my car expenses and, if I were in the process of buying a new car, those payments. From Mike’s teaching income and music jobs he paid the house payment, his own car expenses, entertainment, his charge accounts. We combined resources for larger items of furniture, travel, Christmas gifts and parties at our home, etc. Mike paid the vet bills. I paid for the newspaper delivery. Over time I succumbed to the convenience of credit cards but paid them off every month.
It’s an illusion to think there is such a thing as separate finances in a marriage, especially a marriage in a community property state like California, but it was an illusion we maintained for decades. Now, though, I found I needed to pay attention to Mike’s part of the finances as well as my own—watching the mail for past due notices, trying to make sense of argumentative calls with his bank. In the past if we went to dinner with friends, Mike paid our half of the bill and tip. Now he often didn’t bother to get cash for such an evening out, and if he paid with a credit card, he neglected to add a tip. This in itself wasn’t a big deal as long as I was paying attention; it simply was another puzzling change.
In addition to a significant loss in value of our retirement funds with the recession, the equity in our Gold River house had dwindled to just barely above a break-even point. We’d also taken income hits. Mike’s Northminster choir job paid less than his previous music director’s job had. Because school budgets had been hit so hard with the downturn, there was no longer money for “enrichment,” which was the category under which my books fell. Book royalties were suddenly down by 50 percent. Money for school visits and teacher workshops had also been drastically slashed. Where for the past six or seven years I’d had 15 or so well-paying events a year, 2008 brought less than half that many, and 2009 was looking even more bleak
.
I quit getting regular manicures. I switched from the upscale Gold River hairstylists to Supercuts. Drugstore cosmetics. Occasional drive-through car washes rather than regular visits to the nearby custom car wash. House cleaners only rarely instead of every other week. Cheaper restaurants. Too little. Too late.
In 2009, shortly after the first of the year, I took over all of the banking and bill paying tasks. Mike barely noticed the change. I was disheartened to learn that we still owed more than $19,000 on Mike’s car, the Honda Accord we’d bought five years earlier. We’d used an equity loan for the purchase, and, unbeknownst to me, Mike had only been paying the minimum, the interest, for the past five years. He’d also been paying only the minimum on every bill for which he’d been responsible—Macy’s, the gas card, Citibank, MasterCard, etc.
Over the years, the only credit card I used was my American Express, paid off each month. This was a time when credit card companies were sending offer after offer for low interest cards with which a high card might be paid off. Offers I had typically tossed into the trash without opening, I now began accepting. Thus began the shuffle of borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. I knew it was a slippery slope, a stopgap measure. But short of taking money from our retirement savings, already worth much less than it had been a year ago, I didn’t know what else to do.
We needed to make significant changes to cut our expenses and live within our means. I began talking with Mike about selling our house and getting into something smaller with lower taxes, lower maintenance, lower or no homeowner association fees—maybe we should even consider renting. Mike’s response was always the same. “I’m going to die in this house!” After hearing that one too many times, I suggested that if he were serious about dying in this particular house, he’d better hurry up—just one of many times I fell short in the love and compassion category.
'til Death or Dementia Do Us Part Page 11
