Archival

I reached back into my archives for a photo, not any particular photo, just a photo from around this same time last year. This is what I found, a crappy cell phone photo of a flower arrangement at the restaurant where I was having dinner with Dave and Lynn and Carol. Lynn and Carol are artists that Dave and I met at the studio, god, must be about eight years ago. (Can that possibly be right? Where does time go?) The restaurant where we had dinner is one of those "pan-Asian" places. Lynn had made all the sake cups for their "sake flight" (a round of six or seven different kinds of sake). I took this picture as we were leaving the restaurant.

I know I say from time to time that I was an artist in a former life. I was. (Crappy drawings of horses not withstanding.) When I think about what it means--meant--to be an artist, I don't think about self-expression, I think about how remarkably unpleasant it was to deal with gallery owners and, often, most other artists. The people who wanted to buy my art were, for the most part, very pleasant. That's not just because they were giving me money either, but because they appreciated what I did. That was nice. But it wasn't always pleasant dealing with art collectors. Some of the most unpleasant people to deal with, for example, were people who wanted me to do commissions. I did it once and then refused to do it any more, reasoning that if someone didn't like what I already had to offer, then they weren't going to like what I was going to produce for them. (And, too, The Brain absolutely rankles when it comes to someone else trying to direct its creative endeavors. It is not easy to deal The Brain when it is rankled, let me tell you.)

So that was the art career, ended too soon.

Ended Too Soon

Judi and I went off to visit Ellen this evening and it was a bit wrenching. (I cried in the shower beforehand so that I might have a better chance of keeping it together in front of Ellen.)

The cancer is everywhere, in her lungs, in her liver, in her brain, and Ellen is in a kind of free fall, a very rapid decline. She's got maybe six weeks on the outside. That's a blessing, yes, but each day still has to happen.

Ellen doesn't make a whole lot of sense when she speaks, but from what I can glean from what words she does manage to string together, she is both gladdened and beset by the constant stream of visitors. She can still crack a smile (as she did when she closed her eyes and was silent for a long time so I teased, "Oh, God. I'm pretending to sleep and they're still not going away!"). She notices her own confusion and she is frustrated by her increasing inability to communicate. ("I kept asking and asking," she said, "and it took a long time to get the yellow heads." She meant lemon head candy, a bowl of which had appeared next to her bed since my visit Friday.) She is often in pain, from the cancer, yes, but also from the back pain caused by laying in bed hour after hour. She can still, with much effort, sit and stand and manage the bathroom mostly on her own, but she gets dizzy and confused.

Ruth is doing okay. Ruth is very strong, but it is the kind of strength that reminds me of that Hemingway quote about how the world breaks everyone.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
--Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms, 1929

I know Ruth's kind of strength because I am cursed with a version similar to it. I have this idea that I, too, will not break. I watch Ruth and I think, Is this how I would handle this? Maybe. But Ruth is not cynical about Ellen's dying. She is not angry or bitter or even very fearful. She is deeply and profoundly sad. I understand that, but I know too that a response that is not cynical, angry, bitter, or fearful is beyond my capabilities.

I told Judi in the car after we left Ruth and Ellen's that if I were ever in Ellen's place, I wouldn't want anyone--not strangers, not friends, not loved ones--tramping through my bedroom. Judi promised to sit on the step with a shotgun to keep out well-wishers and death-mongers alike. I told her that she could send my dog Crunch in, with a baby monitor around his neck, and we could communicate that way. She laughed.

On Wednesday, I'm taking Ellen to see her therapist, then I'll sit with her for a few hours until Ruth comes home.