Solitude

Maybe time running out is a gift

I′ll work hard 'til the end of my shift

And give you every second I can find

And hope it isn't me who′s left behind

It′s knowing that this can't go on forever

Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone

Maybe we′ll get 40 years together

One day, I'll be gone, one day you′ll be gone

-Jason Isbell, If We Were Vampires

Last night I was Peg's date at a party of the anesthesia team that works together at Arnot. I'm always a little awkward at these things, and prone to exhaustion while I can see Peg's batteries getting charged by the conversation and conviviality.

Late in the gathering Peg sat down at the kitchen table with a group from India, Zimbabwe, and Nigeria to talk about their experience and stories. There was no seat at the table for the Donkster, and as I was fidgeting around in search of a way not to look uncomfortable my phone buzzed. It was my stepfather Bobby, who hung up without leaving a message. Then he buzzed me again. Figuring this must be something serious, I stepped out of the awkwardness and onto the back deck to call him back.

Bobby picked up, sounding agitated and a little confused, punctuating his thoughts with an "uh" literally ever four or five words. I'll note for the record that it was around sunset, which I guess is significant to these situations.

The first thing he wanted to let me know is that the assisted living facility had decided he needed a different level of attention that would require an additional $10,000.00 a month. This suggested memory care to me, the dementia unit.

Second, Bobby excitedly told me that someone who looked exactly like my mother, right down to the close-cropped black hair (Mom wore a wig), had moved into the facility. He then described his efforts to get to know her, how she looked surprised and confused when he kept calling her by my mother's name and asking why she didn't remember him. He then said, "I know you talk to your Mom every week or two--you should ask her about all that."

This is pretty sad. Bobby's 90, and it's obvious he's beginning to really lose it. I need to call his one son I know well today to make sure he's aware of what's going on, and maybe discuss options although I'm not really driving that bus. Bobby and I were always cordial but not close, and there was a lot of friction between us when Mom entered her final days and he couldn't understand why the hospice nurse wouldn't talk to him about a program to get Mom walking again a few hours before she died, three years ago now.

The moment also feels like a warning for P and me. Bobby is pretty much alone now, his Bible study group all deceased and no community or family around to take its place. He and Mom became each others' community, in effect, and once she was gone he was adrift. Now in his senescence he has no one, and isn't comprehending his now three-year-old reality.

One of the manifest consequences of this amazing eight-plus years of us venturing to south Walton County, then to the farm, then to Corning, then back-and-forth with the occasional few days in NYC, is finding ourselves with no community. There's no church family, no civic club or country club where everyone knows our name and our story. The investment that makes those things possible is time, time not purposefully spent trying to cultivate relationships, perhaps, but time eating together and sometimes making small talk at civic events or when we all find ourselves at a favorite restaurant. To be a vehicle for building relationships those encounters must be repetitive, and regular. We have folks we really like in all these spots, but we'll disappear for weeks on end, and even the longstanding friendships begin to fade.

One day the two of us will be one of us. Then what? I watch poor Bobby muddle through this last chapter, and I see the answer. It's something to ponder.

Beautiful day out there. If this mediation ends timely, we'll drive back to Corning via Branchport so we can check on winter storage for the Chris Craft.