Changes

Dear Readers,

This is probably the longest I've ever gone between two posts: a lot has been going on. Thank you for checking back here.

On the morning of March 23, my father's partner Barbara suffered a massive stroke and was taken to hospital. We left Montreal almost immediately to be with him, and ended up staying for the next three weeks as we tried to help him through the death of his partner a week later (she never regained consciousness), moved him out of the home they had shared for 12 years into our own family home at the lake, and then explored options for him to stay there with help, or to move into assisted living: the latter was the choice he finally made. This would have been a huge upheaval of grief, loss, and change for anyone, and he is 97, living in a rural area that doesn't have robust, reliable social services or any transportation to speak of: almost everyone relies on their own car, even at an advanced age. The options are very limited.

Snow squalls on the way to Cooperstown.

After a lifetime of athleticism and self-motivated attention to physical fitness, including a new hip and two knee replacements, he's had increasing trouble with arthritis and declining mobility and balance over the past two years. Although we're all hopeful that physical therapy may help him regain some strength and greater comfort, it became clear that he couldn't stay in his own house safely, so he chose a facility in the small city where he and Barbara had lived, where he will be close to his friends, his partner's family who have been so kind to him, and where life will be as familiar as possible. My father is a courageous and stoic person, and although these events were wrenching and extremely difficult, I'm proud of how the three of us navigated them together, and glad I had the privilege of spending so much time with him. It wasn't all care-giving, either; we played chess and cards, he taught me tricks for solving Sudokus, and I learned a lot about antique clock repair. More significantly, the three of us had long conversations over each meal about everything from life and death, to how my father began building this house, back in the 1950s. I think he learned quite a bit more about the two of us as well.

The swamp on the back side of the lake was full of spring peepers.

We've now returned home to Montreal and are preparing for a major life-change ourselves: a move to a larger condominium that we had bought shortly before all of this happened. Our own apartment will go on the market soon, and we'll move in mid-June to our new home, in a different part of the city, and close our studio at the end of October. We plan to go back to central New York to see my father, and attend Barbara's memorial service, in the middle of May. She was a kind, generous, sociable, cheerful and optimistic person, devoted to her extended family; she and my father played golf and bridge together, did some traveling, enjoyed going out to eat, and had an active social life. The two of them were excellent companions and a lovely couple: I'm so grateful for all the good years they spent together and the joy they brought to each other's lives, so unusual in their length of years and the good health they both managed to enjoy. We will miss her.

While we were staying at the lake, another close friend of our family also died. Ray lived a few houses away, and was in his late 80s; the friendships between our families span three generations. We were able to see his children; we all tried to help each other and talked about the strange feeling of watching our parents' generation, who have been such strong and constant figures of our childhoods and the long subsequent years, now pass the torch to us when we're all getting on in age ourselves. 

The late spring weather was pretty wretched -- grey and rainy, with days of windy snow squalls -- but the lake was a reassuring presence. Every morning when I got up, I'd spend some time looking out at the water and its changing moods, and every evening when it was possible, my husband and I took a walk around the lake at sunset, looking out at the fields as the farmers began to plow, watching the migrating geese and a group of mergansers that had stopped at the lake for a while, and, to our great excitement, observing a bald eagle nest with vigilant adult birds, at the top of a tall pine tree.

Skunk cabbage.

We arrived when the days were still snowy, and by the time we left, a loud chorus of spring peepers could be heard each evening, skunk cabbages had unfurled in the swamp, and I spotted the first mayflowers in bloom at the foot of an old beech tree near the house. During our drives in the countryside, through the Chenango and Unadilla Valleys to Cooperstown and Binghamton, and up over the Madison County hills to Cazenovia and Syracuse, I was comforted and enchanted once again by the beauty of the pastoral landscape that's been imprinted on me since childhood. It's no wonder, I thought to myself, that I became a landscape painter, with deep emotional ties to the land, the light, the plants and trees, and the form of the hills and valleys that were shaped by glaciers that deposited the round cobblestones -- still seen in old barn foundations -- on top of sedimentary rock layers rich with marine fossils. All these daily sights, combined with a long personal history, became my daily consolations.

 

Comments

[Mimosa]

Beth, I'm so sorry for the loss of your family member. Reading your words reminds me of my own cold spring, the changes I haven't spent as much time noticing, and the necessity of slowing down to see what is nestled below surfaces gradually thawing.

[Deborah]

I am so glad that your father was able to have your support and love.

[Bente Torjusen]

Dear Beth,
I am so sorry to hear about the death of your father’s partner, Barbara. I can only imagine how worried you must be about him, losing his dear companion at his age. I can’t tell you how much I miss you and Jonathan. Am thinking of you with fondness, and hope we can get together before too long. Much love, Bente.

[Beth]

Mimosa, thank you very much for your words and your sympathy. And I hope you can take some time to get out into nature and see what you can find. Always lots of lessons there for me, when I manage to slow down.

Thank you Deborah. It was my privilege too, and I'm sure I'll look back on those difficult weeks as a special time.

Thank you, Bente, I was glad to find your message. Extreme old age is remarkable, but you have to be as tough as he is, or as your mother was, to endure it!

[Pascale Parinda]

So much loss and change. You are navigating it all with great grace. My condolences and my best wishes for your transition to your new home!

[am]

The photos as well as your writing reveal great love in a time of loss of family and friends. Your life is enriched with deep emotional ties. Good to hear from you. Kindest wishes always.

[Roderick Robinson]

Ah, the wrench. From the home one has created over decades to a residence designed to compensate for one's physical inadequacies. My wife and I presently live in a four-bedroom detached house which provides the unspeakable luxury of a study/workshop for each of us. But it cannot last much longer. I am 86 and on chemotherapy, my wife is two years younger and suffers from a variety of old-age ailments. Should we wait until disaster forces us to change - as happened to your father - or make a planned move while we are both compos mentis? More particularly, dare we spend thousands for the wider family on a rented villa on the Mediterranean coast this August - a parting shot at France and all its intellectual diversions - or should we accept we've already paid our last visit there? Surprisingly my medical advisers (of which there are many) seem to favour the idea of a holiday and money has been tentatively spent.

I note your father is almost half a generation older than I am (and I thought I was aged!). The key issue, from my point of view, is whether one may usefully adopt a philosophical attitude towards all-round decay or whether one should go the Dylan Thomas route. I infer that your father opted for the former. We'll see. But let it not be tomorrow, there's so much Schubert still unexplored.

[Jean]

I wondered where you were, Beth, and wondered if you were with your father. So it's good to know that you're OK and so, for now, is he. But you must be so tired after this recent time, and distress, and decision-making. I hope you will be very good to yourselves through the moving process, opt for all the practical help available. And I wish you everything you wish for yourselves in your new home, which I'm sure is lovely. Love and thanks for the beautiful thoughts and pictures you share, as always.

[Claire Doyle]

Dear Beth,
I am so sorry for your father’s loss of companionship. How lucky they were. I love your feelings associated with the landscapes in central New York. It is a comforting place to rest from the world.
Love,
Claire

[Dave Bonta]

Such beautiful photos and writing. Thanks for filling us in. I'm so glad your father is still hanging in there!

[Kathleen]

So sorry for all you have been through. It sounds like you handled it all so beautifully and gently.

[Edward Yankie]

Sending love and hugs. You and Jonathan are going through so much. And handling it like champions. But it still hurts. I really love the photos. They would make great watercolours too.

[Kathy Hughes]

Beth, Your words are beautiful in describing your father and his partner's time together. We wish him well in adjusting to his new situation and know you and Jonathan will handle your transition with ease as you always do. We send our love and prayers.
K&H

[natalie]

My dearest Beth, what a traumatic time for you and your father. I'm so sorry for your loss and am holding you and Jonathan and your father in my heart and my thoughts, I mean this sincerely. What admirable, courageous, life-celebrating, inspiring individuals you are.

I apologise for my absence here at Cassandra's welcoming home where there is always something beautiful to see, to absorb and to reflect on. As time goes by (you know my age) I admit to being more reluctant to leave my self-built tin tower. Ivory was never available so keeping the DIY construction standing in the 'real' (?) world is my more or less daily, more or less metaphorical job. Everything is more or less now. Love and friendship are definitely in the More section so please take no notice of my absences.

[Sheena]

May the peacefulness of your words and images be a promise of things to come.

[Mary McCloskey]

Dear Beth,
So sorry to hear this very sad news. Can't imagine how hard all this change must be for your Dad and just wrenching for you, getting everything in place and then returning home only to have to summon the energy to move again. Many years ago I first wrote to you when my husband was first diagnosed with cancer. Your word were such a tonic to me then and I have always been so grateful for your kindness. Hope your Dad is able to find some joy in the new place and that your new home offers much comfort in the days ahead.