As the day passes
Some pictures I took of him when we were watching the river:
Crossing 67th. Etc
The Park
My friend greeted me by the lobby door and said go to the park, everything’s in bloom.
Good plan for this aimless Easter Sunday.
My route was to come in at 67th. And there were the memories.
Burt and I frequented The Park. My path today was full of old stories.
My Sunday in the park had the ostensible intention of enjoying the freshly blooming scenery. So:
At 79th and 5th stands a building Burt and I visited once. Years ago, we were curious.
Bubbling up
Two weeks before my planned celebration to honor Burt, I find little reminders in his honor.
I am organizing my living space, with no wish to eliminate any of the reminders.
You might argue that disposing of Burt’s jackets and sneakers can be seen as a way of eliminating reminders.
Throwing out his things is as difficult as I had expected it to be.
I don’t want to forget Burt or dispose of mementos. That should go without saying but I say it out of a little guilt as I remove clothes, and shoes from the closet.
Today, a truck is on way to take donations away.
My walls are happily covered with the photos of him that I took. These are staying where they are, sometimes with an improvement. I routinely make adjustments to keep them neatly in place.
Burt used to love when I would take his picture; he knew it was a tribute of my love.
I often say good morning to one or the other of the images of Burt that line my walls.
My stepdaughter sent me frames for Mother’s Day; (yes, she is always an early gifter). I took two photos of us from-before to put front and center. They represent a happy memory; all my photos do. At times, I repeat their stories as I look them over; I recall the what and where, when and why behind the pictures.
In the course of organizing, I had found papers from the days of our journey, destined for the shredder. These, too, provided memories.
Good morning, Burt.
Back to basics
It would be impossible to survive this journey without love, or kindness, or compassion.
I have held firm in this belief from the beginning. I now know how much love, kindness and compassion can buoy me in grief as well.
The fourth pillar of caregiving is respite.
Proper time for the carer to fuel and refuel is a positive necessity. I insisted on it for myself. Always.
I urge anyone embarking on the journey of care to honor the time for rest and restoration. If not for yourself [as you deserve], then so you will be refreshed in order to give better care to the one you love.
Coincidence
Getting ready for a shredding event, as I cleaned out papers, I found Burt’s discharge from rehab. The date was, apparently 2/25/2023, just two years to the day before his death this year.
A coincidence that I found such a jolting reminder.
I had completely forgotten the exact date when he’d come home. It felt so long ago. So much happened to us in that short time.
It’s one of the incongruities of our journey that I measure the passage of time as both long ago and so very recent. There were so many turns, twists and changes.
Tickaboom
Burt loved tickets. I think I have shared the joke before: he said he liked getting tickets better than going to the show.
Be that as it may, we went to most of the shows for which we had tickets. Tickets were a big deal and I think it had to do with his childhood.
As a lad, he spent many a Sunday at Ebbett’s Field although he was a Giant’s fan. The Dodgers played near home. His dad would drive his cab to the apartment for a breakfast break on his Saturday shift bearing rolls and, yes, tickets for the next day’s game.
When we were courting, Burt went to Lincoln Center on the first sale day of the ballet season and returned with tickets for every matinee.
He knew how much I loved the New York City Ballet. In our last five years, he’d say he would like to go to the ballet. I always wanted to grant him the wish but feared he’d be restless. I think that was a fair assessment of the way things were. We would watch a ballet on TV’s Great Performances. Sometimes, he’d say “that’s pretty.” Sometimes, he’d have no patience.
Acquiring tickets was an art for Burt. He took a great deal of care at the booth. Ticket sellers all over the city got to know his requirements and he knew who was naughty and who was nice.
For his 60th birthday, Burt gifted himself with a comprehensive sports package. It included a bunch of Knicks games, some Rangers tickets, a women’s tennis tourney at the Garden. He also got Saturday series tickets for his Mets.
The Giants and even the Dodgers had left for California. On the grounds that the Yankees always win, Burt refused to cheer for them. He was a Mets fan when we met.
His birthday was in November 1999. The baseball season we would witness was the year his hapless team would make it to the World Series.
A miraculous event- although not as much so as the 1969 team my mother watched as if she really understood baseball. [I doubt she did but she was glued to the tele every time I visited.]
We, Burt and I, were headed to the 2000 World – Subway- Series. The Mets were going up against my Yankees. If you really want to know, I was rooting for Burt’s Mets. They were the underdog.
Theater, like sports, was not always a win but it was always a happy experience. Wrangling tickets at the box office, never on the internet, was a Burt sport.
He expanded on our interests to take in opera, and jazz, the great American Songbook, and an occasional concert series. Pop singers would pop up on his radar and we’d be at the Beacon watching Rosanne Cash or at Radio City with Dolly. We did see the beautiful Barbra, during one of her last NY performances. We found out she was coming to town from a street fair vendor; next thing, we were dashing to the Madison Square Garden ticket booth. Who knew we’d be seated behind Smokey Robinson.
Tickets and celebrity encounters were a Burt thing. Smokey was one of the few Burt did not chat up. Derek Jeter showed up at one of those women’s tennis matches I mentioned, and Burt tackled guards to speak to him. He told me he’d said he’d been to 1000s of Yankee games. Jeter raised a brow, “Thousands?” Most every big name Burt spoke to enjoyed his enthusiastic charm. The list is long, but we must have run into Jerry Stiller at least a half-dozen times; even I had a long, lovely conversation with him.
Tickets bought can lead to tickets returned, or sold. Note that they always have greater value at the ticket office. Scalpers will not give you a good deal. We got to the theater really early and it was going to be a long wait til Diana Ross was scheduled to appear. The fellow who eventually agreed to help us out said he’d buy the tickets ’cause his mom was a fan. We went out to dinner on our losses.
Burt had a philosophy that went along with this, too. Once you’ve spent the money, that money’s gone. A lot of the fun was in the time spent buying and wheeling and dealing for those best seats, even when they were in the 4th ring.
My memories
There were many things Burt could still remember as Lewy progressed. Some were mangled memories. Until the last month or two, he still knew that I loved him.
Sometimes that awareness came as a reminder from me. I love you very very much. His eyes widened and he’d say “Really?” and smile in recognition.
As his illness progressed, he had to be lured to eat. Since lemon tarts, eggs and campari tomatoes pleased him, I cheered these repasts with a disproportionate zeal. Most other things became less and less engaging; he was unable to follow movie plots, no longer could organize doing laundry. He lost intetest in picking up the mail.
My memories are wandering back further to enjoy my beloved Burt when he was whole. His enthusiasms were many, varied and whole-hearted.
I revelled in his appreciation of a good lobster dinner, or a new wave meal. He truly loved ballet and all sorts of drama. We shared the pleasures of sports, sex, food, theater and television.
The Burt of those yesterdays long ago was a man of keen interests and sharp intellect.
Today, I remember Burt when we first met. He was curious, full of adventure and a natural teacher.
I miss that Burt and the more fragile guy whose eyes widened when I said I love you very very much.
Really!
It went so fast
In a rambling dinner conversation, Burt’s favorite aide [and mine] and I inevitably spoke of him.
His idiosyncracies over the rules of laundry and eager attendance to the mailbox were still part of daily living when she began. Only toward the end, in the last few months, did Burt think I was just never here.
My absence [even fictional as it was] distresses me. As it must have him. He felt abandoned, I’ll warrant, and I will try to make amends to the soul who lingers in my memory.
We spoke of him with the fondness of familiarity [which I affirm does not breed contempt]. We realized that his final downfall was quick. Percipitous.
We agreed that we miss his humor and some of those idiosyncracies of his.
I was prompted
It’s hard to feel like you’re thriving in the midst of the downward cycle of dementia.
My policy, as I have often called it, was to get help in early so I could get “me time.” It was to save myself, to keep from drowning, to stay positive.
In retrospect with Burt-dear Burt- gone, I miss having more time with him.
Not a realistic regret. Time away and to myself made it possible to value time with him. I NEEDED the time on my own time.
I want a little of both because what I really want is that he not have been ill and that I could have had time with the old Burt, the from-before Burt. I came to love him in his dementia, in some ways more deeply than I ever thought could be, but boy could I have enjoyed more time with him with all his faculties intact!
I have survived his illness as he has not and now I am learning what to do with all this “me time” his absence necessitates and gifts me.
Our journey. Now it’s my journey alone
I know that Burt is guiding me through this part of the journey. I say this despite my averred non-[even, perhaps anti] spiritual stance.
As a new acquaintance told me yesterday, we don’t approach death in a direct way. We don’t for many reasons, one of which is a natural fear of our mortality. We can’t face death as we should, both honestly and as a part of life.
Witnessing the death of a loved one is, actually, a profound moment. The experience of Burt’s passing bound me to his life and memory. Now and going forward.
this is our life 