California Visit, Part 2
Wed, Nov. 25th, 2015 07:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scarlettinaSunday morning, it was clear that what I thought were allergies to the dog were combined with a cold I'd picked up on the plane. I was not happy about having a cold around my immuno-compromised cousin. Paul was feeling a little better--not great, but in less pain and better rested. I had hoped, this trip, to go with him to Placerita Canyon Nature Center, where he's a docent and amateur naturalist. He wasn't up for a hike; he was saving his energy for our plans later in the day. So that morning, I went by myself and texted him my impressions. It's a sere and beautiful place, wildlife abundant if you keep your eyes open. It's also home to several injured birds who act as ambassadors for visitors, including a raven, a turkey vulture, and a red-tailed hawk. (Man, those guys are big--I always forget! I loved its tan, feathery bloomers.) I was there about an hour, wandering the trails, watching the bird life, keeping an eye out for butterflies (Paul's particular passion). In the end, despite having water with me, the heat took more out of me than I expected, so I headed back to the house.
Well, I tried to, anyway. Paul and Susan had allowed me to use Paul's Lexus Hybrid. What I didn't understand about driving this magnificent piece of machinery is that if the key fob isn't within a certain proximity of the steering wheel, the car just shuts off. I didn't know this and, without thinking about it, opened the door, got into the car, and put the key fob into my pocketbook on the passenger seat. Turns out, the passenger seat is too far away for the car to recognize. So I pulled out, and then the car just . . . stopped. It took a kind stranger to help me figure out what was wrong. It was a combination of user error, security protocols and, perhaps, a little bit of design sexism acting together. At any rate, problem solved, I headed back to the house.
For that afternoon, Paul and Susan had secured tickets to an L.A. Theater Works production of "American Buffalo" by David Mamet. I'm a big fan of LATW; I listen to it on my local NPR affiliate regularly. I'm also a fan of Mamet, the rhythm of his language and his astonishing character work. I was very excited about going when Paul and Susan told me of the plan shortly after I arrived on Friday. From this remove, I think that perhaps Paul was determined to attend this performance as a result of my enthusiasm more than anything else. We met some of Susan's friends at the theater, generally lovely people, alert and interesting, and watched the play. It was a good production--radio theater is always fun. About halfway through, it was clear that Paul was having a hard time. I offered to him that, having seen a production in Seattle, I would be fine with our leaving if he needed to go. He wouldn't hear of it. We stayed until the end. They retired immediately upon our return home.
Monday morning, Susan had an early appointment. She had arranged for friends of hers--Wendy and Hugh--to take me to the airport. Paul and I had about 20 minutes to talk, just us, and we talked about sort of inconsequential things: my work on Ancestry.com tracing our family, my showing Susan how it worked, that sort of thing. He gave me a piece of petrified wood that had belonged to his father, gathered on one of his innumerable travels. But there wasn't enough time, real time, to say whatever we might have said of any substance. I think we both had it beneath our skin.
Paul's got my Aunt Shirley's eyes, this sort of placid, striated blue. These days, they're understandably sad and, as a result of his chemo, lashless. The chemo has also left him beardless and mostly bald, except for a stubble of white around the sides. I can't remember my Uncle Larry, his father, ever having white hair, but Paul's got his other features. I could see both of his parents in his face; it was disconcerting, like three people looking at me all at once. It was almost painful to see, and I understood that all four of us wanted more connection somehow, and there just wasn't that much time left to have that in any substantial way.
When the doorbell rang, we both paused, and then I went to get it, because there was really nothing else to do. Wendy and Hugh came in; Paul got up to greet them. He always been taller than me, but with a slight, comfortable slouch. These days, it's a tired slouch, and he's walking like an old man for the first time that I can remember. I hated to see it. We gathered my things. I wanted so much to hug and kiss him goodbye, but with him being so vulnerable and me with my cold, it wasn't the smart thing to do. I told him point-blank that I love him and that I'd be in touch. And then I left.
And without expecting it at all, once we got to the car, I just disintegrated. I totally hadn't expected it, but I guess I'd sort of been pushing it down all weekend. I cried almost all the way to the airport. Wendy and Hugh were remarkably kind. Wendy's a lay minister and was really good with me, just talking through what I was feeling and helping me pull myself together for the flight.
People leave. People just . . . end. I've known it, really understood it, since I was 11 when my father died. It's never easy and it will never stop. I hate it.
But I'm glad I took this trip, as hard as it was. I'm the only family on the west coast interested enough to visit Paul now and was glad to do it. I just wish that there could be more visits with him healthy enough to be present and active. I don't want my next trip to southern California to be for a funeral. I may not have a choice.
Well, I tried to, anyway. Paul and Susan had allowed me to use Paul's Lexus Hybrid. What I didn't understand about driving this magnificent piece of machinery is that if the key fob isn't within a certain proximity of the steering wheel, the car just shuts off. I didn't know this and, without thinking about it, opened the door, got into the car, and put the key fob into my pocketbook on the passenger seat. Turns out, the passenger seat is too far away for the car to recognize. So I pulled out, and then the car just . . . stopped. It took a kind stranger to help me figure out what was wrong. It was a combination of user error, security protocols and, perhaps, a little bit of design sexism acting together. At any rate, problem solved, I headed back to the house.
For that afternoon, Paul and Susan had secured tickets to an L.A. Theater Works production of "American Buffalo" by David Mamet. I'm a big fan of LATW; I listen to it on my local NPR affiliate regularly. I'm also a fan of Mamet, the rhythm of his language and his astonishing character work. I was very excited about going when Paul and Susan told me of the plan shortly after I arrived on Friday. From this remove, I think that perhaps Paul was determined to attend this performance as a result of my enthusiasm more than anything else. We met some of Susan's friends at the theater, generally lovely people, alert and interesting, and watched the play. It was a good production--radio theater is always fun. About halfway through, it was clear that Paul was having a hard time. I offered to him that, having seen a production in Seattle, I would be fine with our leaving if he needed to go. He wouldn't hear of it. We stayed until the end. They retired immediately upon our return home.
Monday morning, Susan had an early appointment. She had arranged for friends of hers--Wendy and Hugh--to take me to the airport. Paul and I had about 20 minutes to talk, just us, and we talked about sort of inconsequential things: my work on Ancestry.com tracing our family, my showing Susan how it worked, that sort of thing. He gave me a piece of petrified wood that had belonged to his father, gathered on one of his innumerable travels. But there wasn't enough time, real time, to say whatever we might have said of any substance. I think we both had it beneath our skin.
Paul's got my Aunt Shirley's eyes, this sort of placid, striated blue. These days, they're understandably sad and, as a result of his chemo, lashless. The chemo has also left him beardless and mostly bald, except for a stubble of white around the sides. I can't remember my Uncle Larry, his father, ever having white hair, but Paul's got his other features. I could see both of his parents in his face; it was disconcerting, like three people looking at me all at once. It was almost painful to see, and I understood that all four of us wanted more connection somehow, and there just wasn't that much time left to have that in any substantial way.
When the doorbell rang, we both paused, and then I went to get it, because there was really nothing else to do. Wendy and Hugh came in; Paul got up to greet them. He always been taller than me, but with a slight, comfortable slouch. These days, it's a tired slouch, and he's walking like an old man for the first time that I can remember. I hated to see it. We gathered my things. I wanted so much to hug and kiss him goodbye, but with him being so vulnerable and me with my cold, it wasn't the smart thing to do. I told him point-blank that I love him and that I'd be in touch. And then I left.
And without expecting it at all, once we got to the car, I just disintegrated. I totally hadn't expected it, but I guess I'd sort of been pushing it down all weekend. I cried almost all the way to the airport. Wendy and Hugh were remarkably kind. Wendy's a lay minister and was really good with me, just talking through what I was feeling and helping me pull myself together for the flight.
People leave. People just . . . end. I've known it, really understood it, since I was 11 when my father died. It's never easy and it will never stop. I hate it.
But I'm glad I took this trip, as hard as it was. I'm the only family on the west coast interested enough to visit Paul now and was glad to do it. I just wish that there could be more visits with him healthy enough to be present and active. I don't want my next trip to southern California to be for a funeral. I may not have a choice.