Stranger in an Empty Chair

                                                     "Girl in Green Chair" by Michael Carson



While reality hums and reverberates with a melody entranced in a state of constant flux, I find myself in a place that seems to make the world stand still. Just one single harmony can be heard in my surroundings which seem insulated from the world's dull roar outside these four walls. So is my concentration that it matters little what else is happening in life's periphery. The current demanding needs of the man I care for are the only concerns that rise into view.

Simple things matter the most in his world. Not only having something to eat but having something to eat that he can chew. Not only having something to drink but having something to drink in a container that isn't too full and easy to spill. It is important for him to enjoy his customary daily glass of fresh squeezed orange juice that accompanies his pills and perhaps just as much needed is the hug I give him when coming and leaving. Sometimes the only human contact he gets for the entire day.

He asks me if I can see her.

"Who?" I inquire.

"The stranger in the chair. Its a woman with brown hair to her shoulders. She's looking at me." He answers, his eyes getting larger as he is apparently surprised at the sight behind me.

I turn around and see what I expected to see. An empty chair. I assure him that it is just him and I in the room. That what he is seeing is not there. "Bill, close your eyes and take a deep breath." I wait for him to do so. " Tell yourself that she isn't real. Bill, you have an infection that is causing you to see things that aren't there." I don't know what else to say. I have no training in dealing with anything like this and he doesn't as well. We are just two souls caught up together in quite the quandary.

I place my hand on his and he squeezes it. He is frightened and I can't blame him for that. I would be too. He tells me that early that morning there were two men that were behind him yelling. They were throwing balled up socks at him and one even hit him with a shoe. To him, it had felt so real.

Two days before we had went to the doctor's with one another. The visit was a spontaneous one and had arisen right after he had confided to me that he was seeing things. He had been for awhile but was afraid that if he had told someone they would have immediately put him in the hospital and would have thought he was crazy. He wasn't sure what he was seeing, if it was in his head or maybe even ghosts or something. I told him I was so glad he shared this with me and that I was certain there was a natural and physical explanation to what he was experiencing. He was on new medication, maybe that was it. Regardless, he couldn't be helped if we didn't seek help and things would undoubtedly get worse if we didn't.  I immediately cancelled the appointment I had after him and took him to his doctor's.

I was relieved we had went as when we were there we were informed that he had a raging urinary tract infection and that that could very well explain his hallucinations as well as the lack of appetite and nausea he had been experiencing. Then the doctor dropped the bomb.

"Since he has been seeing things and is just going to be starting antibiotics we are afraid the infection might have gotten into his blood. Since he lives alone he is going to have to go to the hospital."

I looked over at Bill and saw a mask of shock and dread spread over his visage. I knew that his greatest fear was to be hospitalized. Sometimes its hard to get out of the hospital when you go in at his age, especially when certain close family members were eager to have you in there and stay in there. Not out of concern but out of greed.

Not hesitating I jumped in. "What if someone stayed the night with him?"

The doctor looked at me. "Well, then he could go home."

I had turned to Bill, "I could stay with you tonight...That's if you wouldn't mind." Relief visibly expressed itself on his features, his shoulders loosening and a smile forming on his face. "Of course I wouldn't mind!"

"Great. " I turned to the doctor. "I will stay with him tonight. I'll make sure he's taken care of."

The doctor smiled. I think she was just as delighted as we were that he was going to be going home, having had known him for years herself. As I was driving him back to his house I thought about how I was to explain this to my husband and kids. After dropping him off I raced back home to collect my things; a change of clothes, my pjs and toiletries and my Gita for reading after he went to bed that night. I explained the situation to my husband who unfortunately was less than understanding but had little choice as having had already promised the doctor I would stay with Bill I had no intentions of breaking such an agreement. My kids, however, were excited to spend the night over my parents which made my sudden departure from our Friday night routine a little easier.

That night  I placed a home cooked meal before Bill while we settled down to watch , "Some Like It Hot" with Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe. I smiled. I was happy to see him happy. Sitting comfortably in his favorite chair with good warm food and content with the anticipation of viewing one of his favorite movies in the company of another. I cringed at the thought of him lying in some sterile hospital bed with strangers all around being woken up at all hours, disoriented and feeling alone.

When it was finally time for me to go upstairs I made sure he was situated in bed and made my way to the room I would be sleeping in. I was in his former bedroom he used to sleep in before they put a bed down in his living for him for easier access. Pulling the covers back I slipped in with my japa mala and Gita turning on the small light on the table by the bed. Watching the moon outside the window I began to chant. Growing restless and wanting to maintain some concentration I flipped through pictures in my Gita of Krishna as I chanted his names. Finally, fatigue took over and I lay down and fell asleep.

I was awoken at 5 am by shouting. I ran downstairs and saw the door to the entryway was open. Swiftly moving to its entrance I saw Bill, with the front door open, shouting. I ran to him, putting my hands on his arm and guided him away from the door, closing and locking it. He doesn't walk well, having Parkinson's, and it took some effort to help him back up the stairs and into bed. I was glad when he finally closed his eyes, with his covers warmly over him, and settled back down. This experience increased my worry towards his situation. Its one thing seeing things that aren't there from the safety of your own bed, it's another thing entirely to get up and act on what you see, putting yourself at risk of falling down stairs.

Well, here I am now. Things are uncertain for Bill but I am hopeful that his condition will improve. No matter what happens, though, there is a place in my heart where my love blossoms for this man who I find endearing. I plan on staying by his side as much as is possible through this chapter in his life. 

Thoughts? I'd love to hear them. Please consider leaving them in the comments section. Thank you.

Pain's Precipice

My ears strain to hear his constant chatter as I take orange halves, breathing deep their scent, and push them over the top of the little juicer. My palm feels the hard ridges belonging to the circular piece that spins methodically round and round as I press hard against it. It scrapes the pulp off the peel to spin below as juice slowly trickles out of the small spout at the bottom and into the ornately carved glass below. The tiny glass sends me back to the days of my youth. Of sitting at my grandparent’s kitchen table after a night of sleeping over with my sister. Poached eggs, grapefruit and canteloupe before us as well as my grandparent’s loving eyes and warm voices drifting melodically in a shared space made sacred. A time of memories being woven deep in the fibers of my consciousness. My heart winces as I know my grandmother is no more. Her remains now in a marble urn atop my grandfather’s dresser. Those days gone forever.

I answer in short phrases as I catch the majority of the conversation. The fragments I can’t quite make out I try to fill in with what would make sense and am relieved when I can finally turn the little apparatus off and place a fresh glass of orange juice in his outstretched hand. It shakes profusely, an outward symptom of his Parkinson’s.

I feel a sudden surge rise forth within me. Compassion. I want to bring him comfort, joy. He looks so vulnerable and weak, laying in a bed that has been put in his living room for his convenience.  He has lived such a long and extraordinary life. He tells me stories of being in WWII, of working for the Associated Press designing art for their publications in New York City and of losing his young wife to cancer. He is an accomplished painter who has managed to bring to life the ocean, busy harbors, fighter jets and Marilyn Monroe on simple canvas. I look around and marvel at his talent. Pure brilliance is captured within the frames that adorn the ordinary walls of his humble abode and his eyes brighten as I voice my appreciation towards them. Others that come here to care for him that I talk to think him a silly old man that rambles on and on. I see him as a genius and if one only cares to listen he reveals a life where splendor shone daringly at its crest. I seek to bring him some sense of peace and ease as he now sinks to the trough of a wave he once fearlessly mastered.

He does enjoy his talking.  I keep listening as I start his breakfast and place his pills before him. Mind still full of energy and ambition, he rattles on about the art classes he is still teaching and businesses interested in products he sells that have his artwork displayed on them. Mugs, coasters and other such items. At a time and condition in life when many just decide to lay down and succumb to the encroaching illness that is slowly ravaging and inhibiting his body he is still making business deals and sharing his wisdom with a new generation. All of this makes me want to shake my first at nature. At the cruelty of life that would hinder the dreams of someone truly passionate towards a life worth living when so many  seem perfectly content sleepwalking through it. Many times it is those of us who reside comfortably within the confines of mediocrity that are free from such impediments as faltering synapses and dying brain cells that bring rise to shaky hands and the permanently afflicted gait that causes him to grab hold of furniture in order not to fall when he tries to navigate without his walker. Something I gently chide him not to do!

Later on that day he asks me to come up to his studio with him. He is still trying to finish a painting that he began months ago and every time I’ve caught glimpses of it my heart sinks more and more and my consciousness shudders at the realization that his gift has withered away and no longer manifests itself in the form that once defined it.

He longs to just make one more piece of art. To paint a portrait of his daughter who died years ago of cancer. I hear every time he speaks of her that she was the bulwark of his family and a constant source of joy and strength, of inspiration and love, especially after his wife died. And now she is no more like so many others he has known and loved.

An enlarged printed photograph is pinned up beside the canvas that attempts to capture her image on its surface. I look around at the portraits of others he has painted throughout the years. They look so real and lifelike, as if the acrylic they are composed of could easily transform itself into flesh and they could rise out of their framed dwelling and live once again. His daughter’s portrait, however, has deteriorated more and more so that now as I come to face it I don’t know what I should tell him. If I tell him I’m impressed or it looks fine I would be lying. My mind momentarily drifts back to the words of Sam Harris in his small book Lying where he asserts that any lie, even a small lie, is wrong.  I decide to keep silent and that works as the silence is soon filled in with his ongoing monologue.

The painting consists of crude lines and now her visage is inundated with a dark hue of blue. She looks sad and disfigured. There are two places where you can see he started her forehead and either one would make sense if the other were absent. As my eyes settle on the image before me he laments that he is having trouble deciphering the differing colors and thinks he might have added too much blue. An understatement if I’ve ever heard one. That’s all there is, varying shades of blue.

His eyes are slowly failing him even after multiple surgeries.  I begin to sort out the different tubes of acrylic, caked so heavily with multiple layers of different paints I have to look at each one’s opening, putting them one by one up to my eyes and scrutinizing them carefully, to tell what colors they contain.  He laments openly at the condition of the painting and goes to point to the eyes of his daughter in the printed photograph and the unthinkable happens. His fingers wet with paint now smudge one of her eyes that have been gazing at him for so many months. He takes the photo down immediately and reaches for a piece of paper towel but he gets the paint from his fingers on it and as he desperately tries to clean the photograph he gets it even more embedded with dark acrylic paint. He looks up at me, pain's precipice etched in his features in the form of a woeful expression and asks if I can help.

I reach out and gently take hold of his shaking hand that is moving towards the picture once again. In despair it squeezes tightly the crumpled piece of paper towel wet with paint. I cup his hand with both of mine and slowly take the paper towel out of it.  I place it on the table. The picture is not a glossy photo but a printed copy so one cannot just wipe away the dark smudges of blue and black. They are absorbed in the fibers of the paper.

I tell him I’m so sorry. That I will try but I don’t anticipate any success as I think any more efforts to remove the paint that is there will just ruin the picture even more. Eventually he tires of the pursuit and pins it back up beside the canvas. Now two distorted faces of a daughter he once cherished with his whole being stare gloomily back at him. The brilliance of the lake skirting the periphery outside of his window and whose surface dances with the sun’s rays shining from on high is a stark contrast to the mood within the small room. A room  stacked with canvases and frames, layered with heaps of tubes of paints and brushes and in this moment impregnated with sorrow. I tell him that perhaps he could have some lunch and come back to all of this another time. He thinks that’s a reasonable suggestion and I help him downstairs.

When I leave that day he is sitting in his favorite chair and it appears as if his spirits seem to be in order once more. His usual optimism revealing itself in the form of future plans. As I look back a final time I see him close his eyes in fatigue. I silently hope that his dreams take him to the ships and sea that have so long been objects of his adoration. May the sound of busy harbors and lapping waves cradle his consciousness in a temporary peace that can only be attained in the comforting folds of the depthless world of the dreaming state.