Theater, or

Whatever favored activity

I will make the case for theater as a healing art for those of us grieving a loss as well as it may be for a nation in crisis.

Theater does not stand alone in its healing powers. Dance, you bopping to a tune while mopping the floors, or the variety you can catch on the stage or screen, is a great heal, too.

When Burt was around, I used a PBS retrospective of Swan Lake as entertainment for us. Music, ah music, it is nearly legendary as a healer.

When you’re caregiving, there is no time to head off to see a play. I get that. My theater going when Burt was alive was watching clips on our TV with him, and lots of Bluey.*

*incidentally a favorite of mine.

After he passed, I re-started my [our, truth be told] old hobby of going to stage shows. I spent a week at a dance festival and have seen several shows. I reviewed these in the past, and am doing so now.

You, of course, may have other interests. I suggest you take them up again. Long walks in which I rediscover places where we had been add layers of experience to the memories from the before.

I take photos and often comment when I share them on my blogs. I wrote blogs while Burt was alive, too, so there is a continuity for me. That’s good, I think.

Grieving doesn’t ask to be healed. It is a remembering. I have many great rememberings of my life with Burt.

Loss is an odd experience and I try to share my mourning with friends. It keeps it present for me; it keeps Burt present for me.

That’s good I think.

Like we used to do

It’s not a flippant thought, really; I do find Burt coming with me, tagging along as I wander the city.

Some places bring me memories of us. Some are new to me and I feel like we are exploring. Like we used to do.

The Dance Parade was first organized in 2007 in protest of a Prohibition-era city Cabaret Law

It’s pleasing to imagine, for instance, that I am introducing Burt to the dance parade on lower 6th Avenue. Neither of us had seen this before.

And then to see how a familiar area of NYC has changed from what Burt and I would recognize.

Grieving the loss

Caregiving is the hardest job I ever had. Or, it was until Burt died and I suddenly had a much harder job.

This, like my caring for him, is truly a labor of love.

The work of missing Burt involves the pleasure of remembering him. It’s a consolation prize but not really a prize since it recognizes his absence.

This work of recall hurts and heals; Burt is no longer present, and I miss him. I am witnessing that loss every day.

Remembering Burt helps bring him back in a way. Honoring his memory brings a smile to my heart.

Hats!

My friend ACJ said you got Burt a lot of hats. Well, his grandpa was a haberdasher. The other was a mason, but I never bought him a brick.

Burt, it turns out, got me a lot of hats, too. From the selection as I rummaged this morning, I chose the peaky cap he’d gotten me in the rain.

There were many others. The blue beret and the grey clochey one seemed less suited to today’s possible showers vibe.

Thanks to the children’s book, Hats for Sale, I always smile over the hat-thing. Burt used to borrow my hats which also made me smile.

Found treasures

If you’ve been following along, you might recall that taking Burt to a park was my favorite project.

Burt had always been- not in the flannel shirt/camping way but in the New York City style- an outdoors guy. He loved to walk. He and I loved sitting watching the river traffic pass.

We had been doing this for years. As his mobility suffered, getting outside was a greater challenge for me. Our weekend aide, L came on board last May to help with that. We called him Burt’s driver. Usually, Burt would walk part of the way, up the big ramp out the back and from there get driven.

I treasured these outings with Burt. Note, the 2 pictures directly above were from before and to my point that Burt was that outdoor guy.

We went out every Saturday and Sunday and then we went out to Sedutto’s for ice cream on the way home; a couple of times, we had ice cream in a park.

I think the fun we had improved our quality of life immensely.

So many reminders

Thank you, Burton

Missing Burt has been a natural if sad pastime; these last couple of months, the memory of him has accompanied me as I once again roam our town.

I tread the paths we walked over the years. Yesterday, I felt like he was definitely with me in familiar and some new places.

Yesterday, memory took me all over town.

I went to the SSA office to take care of some widow business. I walked to 48th from the M31 stop at 57th and 8th Ave. Then down Broadway to an appointment at 25th and 1st.

I got so many reminders of places we had been to on that leg of my day. There were some changes to the scenery but we muddled through.

Carlo’s claim a long residency here on Broadway, but we’re pretty sure they’re newcomers

Finished with my dentist, [and no, Burt had not been there before], I proceeded to figure out a path to the Soho Playhouse. The village had been a teenage hang of mine, but then, oh Burt and I ate here, and we went to The Minetta Theater, and… my oh my.

I acknowledge I needed more help than my phone’s navigation system to find my way. I asked and strangers were kind.

Memories did not end when To Free a Mockingbird was over and I spilled off the M55 at 44th to walk along 6th Avenue to 57th. I passed the spot by the NY Mets TV station where we used to sit in the grand Rockefeller Center acreage. Radio City Music Hall was kind of a hang for us, too.

As I walked by jewelry row, I turned my finger to admire the engagement ring we had picked out together at this store.

Then there were the Hilton and the Warwick where we ate and regrouped on our way to a show or some outing. And of course that corner of 6th where we so often boarded the M31 to get home.

A long day away from our home, but filled with thoughts of where we had been. Together.

Once upon a time

Recollecting Burt’s time in the rehab center today gave me a little relief although the memory was hard. The fact that I could affirm that I stood for him when he needed my protection felt good.

The nursing home-rehab was not a good place. I would not have placed Burt there over the long haul. I did choose to keep him in the facility longer than Medicare allowed because he needed the PT. I knew I could be his advocate while he was there. I had to be.

Advocacy was a necessity. I was insistent that the doctors here not change his meds; they did at first and I argued against this. It took a little doing but that was my brief, to advocate for him. I had to push to make sure Burt got the physical therapy he needed.

It was sad to see how many of the residents of this place had noone to speak for them. Most had no visitors in all the time Burt was there. I visited every day and usually spent 7 to 9 hours with him. I brought him treats and at times some for his roommates.

There were four men in Burt’s room. We wound up there after three moves. First, we were in a quarantine because Burt had had Covid in hospital.

The move to another floor put Burt in a room with just one roommate. I had some critique  for the CNAs and my [honestly] gentle rebukes got us a transfer to a floor where the patients were screaming. It felt and looked like a psycho ward.

This time I did not protest to the charge nurse but went to the patient ombudsmen. It felt like that would be more effective. It was.

We moved to what was our last room at this facility. Most patients were residents but there were some transients, like Burt, on this floor.

We settled in and I made nice to the workers at the nursing station; I  ordered pizza for the staff. I invited the charge nurse to lunch.

My bribes weren’t much help in getting Burt the attention he needed or deserved. I hired aides to come help out since it was clear the staff was stretched thin.

When the time came to bring Burt home, I had misgivings. I worried that I couldn’t provide proper care. Burt was able to walk with a walker. He was partially incontinent. He needed continuing PT. We took on extra help to help with his return. I continued in my role as his advocate and protector.

We spent the next two years enjoying as good a life as we possibly could. That’s all anyone can do, the best you can.

To mourn

I browsed or breezed or picked my way through Lisa Keefauver’s breezy and very useful book on the art and science of mourning.

Grief is a Sneaky Bitch is a title with an element of shock even for those like me who never hesitate to curse.

Incidentally, if I weren’t inclined to language most foul, Burt would have innoculated me. He loved to say fuck, though, to his credit, he seldom said bitch or ever used infamous c word.

Anyway, grief, to the grieving, well to the grieving me, is sacred. We don’t curse at grief.

Why is grief an art? Simply, because we each grieve in our own way and in our own time.

Science? Ms Keefauver reminded me that the body holds grief so aches and pains might come from the body in physical grief.

Talking about Burt keeps my memories of him active. It helps me process my sorrow over losing him. That’s my art. That’s my science.

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started