Loss

Laurence Fishburne as Othello; Kenneth Branagh as Iago, 1995

Okay, I know this post has kind of a depressing title--maybe not even kind of. But I've been thinking about my parents lately, about their aging, about their losses. About how--if we live long enough--we will surrender most (if not all) of the territory we thought we'd conquered.

When my father died on Nov. 30, 1999, he could do none of the things he had once loved. At age 87 he (until his final days) was in a wheelchair. He slept most of the time--and I remember asking him (sensitive I) if he liked sleeping so much. And he told me that he did--because he dreamed a lot, and when he dreamed, he was young again.

And it was then that I realized (as I've mentioned here before) that my father was like Rip Van Winkle, waking up from youth multiple times a day, realizing that time has somehow flown ...

And what a youth he had had! A tremendous tenor voice--great athletic talents (a track and football star in high school)--the kindest of hearts--a silly sense of humor--and such a gift with animals: birds and other critters would approach him. Curly-haired, muscular handsome.

My mom, who died at age 98 on March 10, 2018, also followed the same decline that my father had: cane-walker-wheelchair-bed. And this once-vigorous woman--who'd hiked great lengths of the coast trails in Oregon in her 70s, who swam every day, who consumed books like the chocolate she loved--could do nothing that she loved by the end of her life. She could not even turn on her TV set to watch the news; she had forgotten how to use her laptop (she was the earliest in our family to have/use a computer). And--somehow (how?)--she did it with a grace that astonished me. She was able to laugh at her disabilities--not in an ironic way, either. Or in a bitter way. She genuinely laughed.

I witnessed, too, the physical decline of my dear friend and colleague Andy Kmetz. He had been a superb dancer, had choreographed lots of shows I directed back in my Aurora days. And, later, in our weekly visits to see him in his assisted-living unit, I watched that physical regression I'd seen in my parents: cane-walker-wheelchair-bed. And, once again, it was devastating to witness. But Andy, too, somehow, kept being Andy, right to the day before he died (which was the last time Joyce and I saw him).

In the last few years I've seen my own physical abilities begin to desert me. I had to give up my bicycle a couple of years ago: My balance had become unreliable. And has become even worse. Even walking now can sometimes be an ... adventure. It's gotten to the point that I can no longer, for now, go out to the health club to walk laps on the indoor track, to ride the stationary bike (even the illusion of movement makes me dangerously dizzy).

A number of other things I used to love to do are gone now--playing catch with my grandsons, shooting hoops in their driveway. Impossible now--if, that is, I want to stay on my feet.

Joyce and I used to roar off on road trips at a moment's notice. Sometimes clear across the country. No more. I do not get dizzy when I drive (not yet), but the possibility of a long trip is now an impossibility. We had, a couple of years ago, to give up our annual week in Stratford, Ont., where we loved their annual theater festival--we'd see 11 plays in 6 days--walking everywhere. We usually didn't drive at all for the entire week. I'm just no longer remotely capable of that.

Intellectually, I can still do much of what I love to do--reading, writing, enjoying spirited conversations with Joyce and family and friends. My memory seems good--though my quick recall is now housed in my iPhone.

For example, I knew the answer to the final Jeopardy question the other day (which Shakespeare character has the most lines in a play that is not named for him?). (I didn't watch the show, but someone posted the question online.) I knew almost immediately it was that Bad Guy in Othello, but I could not for the life of me come up with his name (Iago) for about 20 minutes (I refused to check my iPhone!). I've read that play many times, have seen it several times--and the film with Laurence Fishburne and Kenneth Branagh (as Iago!), taught it a couple of years at Hiram's Weekend College. But Iago's name was gone ... Until my brain, grudgingly, at last surrendered to my insistent entreaties.

The walk over to the coffee shop each morning (about 1/4 mile each way) has become such an adventure that Joyce likes it when I text her that I've arrived safely.

Arrived safely.

That's the key, isn't it? Arriving safely at our destination. And--for every single one of us--we know what that destination is, though, in youth, we pretend that we don't.