Goodbye, Bob

Bob Rost
May 26, 1948 - Feb 26, 2024

One of Bob's favorite bible verses was Philippians 1:6: I am sure of this much: that the One who has begun the good work in you will carry it through until completion, right up to the day of Christ Jesus.

God's good work in him is complete. He is free.

I went to see him this past Saturday, shortly after my return from California. I expected to find him in much the same condition he'd been in when I left three weeks ago, but when I walked into his room, it was clear he'd turned a final corner in my absence. He was well along the path to whatever-it-is that comes next. 

I sat with him for a long time. I sang to him. He opened his eyes and recognized me one last time. 

I went back Sunday, but while he was still breathing, he didn't rouse at all. The drugs were doing their part of God's good work. As I left, I knew I'd said my last goodbye. He died in the wee hours of yesterday morning.

I went back to the facility yesterday for a final visit, to bring a small thank you gift for the staff who did their best to care for him. While I was there, I stopped by his (former??!??) room. While I knew he was gone, I guess I wanted to see with mine own eyes that he was no longer there. Sure enough, thankfully, I felt no sense of his presence. He'd finally escaped his gilded cage.

And so ends our complex relationship.

Despite the fact he was a Catholic priest, which, sadly, put certain limits on what we could be for each other, he'd been my best friend for thirty years. We supported each other through life's ups and downs; shared a deep and abiding love. 

It occurred to me, as I vainly tried to get back to sleep at 3AM this morning, that as he is set free, so am I. 

To walk the path of dementia with him has taken an enormous amount of emotional and physical energy. For the last two years (when I was in town), I've blocked off the better part of at least one day each week to visit him. I came home emotionally spent from most of those meetings; it was SO hard to watch him slipping away. No more.

As someone told me this morning, "Change is hard. Even good change is hard. Change mixed with grief is especially challenging."

Taking one step at a time, my last few days have looked quite calm. I've exercised, which helps me to stay grounded in this world. I've worked on my list of things-to-get-done, a great distraction. I'm fine for a while, then a stray thought pierces my facade of normalcy, "He is gone." I let the tears flow for a bit, then change the words to, "He is free." The change in wording doesn't stop the tears, but it does remind me I have been praying for this moment to arrive for the better part of two years.

Bob, I hope, wherever you are, your lost memories have caught back up with you. I pray you have met up with some of your old friends, have been able to set things right with your parents. I hope you are laughing freely and often; that infectious, booming, laugh of yours. I pray you have met up with the Christ Jesus you served so long and so well, that he told you, "Welcome home, my worthy servant."

You were worthy. You are worthy. I will miss you. 

Te amo.

Cancaversary #12

Twelve years.

It's already been twelve years since I cut my dream of a camper van journey short to face down cancer. Even if/when it decides to reappear one day, I've beaten the cancer odds. 

Today, I am still here.

I gotta admit, in those first days after my fingers stumbled upon the lump, I was sure the piper had come calling for me. I was prepared to go down fighting, but given the givens of my mom's cancer journey, I thought I wouldn't survive the decade. I was resigned to the probability I would be told, when I woke from my double mastectomy, that the disease had found its way to my lymph nodes. But I won the same genetic lottery I lost, my lymph nodes were clear. My cancer, caught early, turned out to be treatable, unlike Mom's, unlike Libby's.

I didn't survive the battle without some scars to show for it. They are my daily reminder of the difficult paths I walked in the midst of the journey. The part I like is that they are scars; no longer open wounds that need careful tending, they are reminders I made it through to the far side of that dark valley. 

I have traveled far since those days. As I make new memories (both pleasant and less so) and have new adventures (both fun and less so), a sense of awe surrounding the fact I am still around to live my days is never far from my awareness. 

This year, I was out in California with Kate, and together we celebrated our continued ability to open our eyes each morning. (Her cancaversary is three years less two days after mine; she is also NED - shows No Evidence of Disease. *whew*) With her partner Edwin and the amazing Ms. Lexi, we had a luxurious dinner and raised a toast or three in gratitude. 

We are here.

Hallelujah!

Frozen, Jr

I can't tell you the last time I was in the audience for a middle school play. My two kids weren't involved in the theater, so I'm guessing it's been the better part of 50 years. (How did THAT happen??) It took my granddaughter get me back into my seat for a show. She has picked up the acting bug, and was selected to join the cast of her school's production, Frozen, Jr. The show was on this past weekend, and I was delighted to attend two of her performances. 

The rain that drenched California's coast last week had cost them most of their scheduled dress rehearsals, and so they spent ten hours (?!?) on Wednesday, the day before the show, making up for lost time. It was clearly time well spent. To my untutored eye, everything came more-or-less seamlessly together. Everyone knew their lines and sang the many songs with enthusiasm, danced with grace.

Whenever I'm around a group of young people this age, I'm struck anew by how. much. they. grow. in these three years. They go from children to quasi-adult sized. *poof!* The casting director had no trouble finding cast members to depict the three Annas and Elsas (young, middle-kid aged, and grown up). Close to home, my Lexi has grown over an inch since I saw her just last Thanksgiving!

As I sat in the theater, I was transported to a simpler place. All my external worries and concerns evaporated. I was focused on watching this child of my heart pop on and off the stage in her four distinct ensemble roles. I knew she was worried about stumbling as she twirled, depicting living snow during Elsa's song, Let it Go. Her skirt as a townsperson was a bit loose, and she was concerned she might step on the hem and pull it down as she danced that number. 

I was happy with and for her as neither these nor any other mishaps marred her graceful performance. 

I needed the play this week; was overdue for a reminder that at least some of our young people are doing a bang-up job of growing up well. Their world has seen a LOT of upheaval these past few years, but they are showing their resilience by doing the things kids their age have done as long as I've been on this earth. The happy smiles on their faces as they took their bows after the final show last night were a testament to hope. 

Hope anyways.

Such a Slow Goodbye

I haven't written about Bob and his dementia journey in a long time; there hasn't been much to add. I visit often, tucking my sorrow deeply under my shirt as I walk in the door so I can greet him, wherever he is that day, with a smile on my face. It is hard. He has hated being a prisoner in the dementia ward, and I have hated it for him, but there has been nothing I could do to change anything; his family has NOT been interested in having me, or anyone else, take him outside for a break.

His deterioration has been noticeable; steady, but slow. Week over week, the changes are slight, but anytime I look back over a couple of months, the downhill trend is clear. 

December found him in unfamiliar waters. He hit some sort of internal tipping point. Over the course of the past two months he has gone from fairly self-sufficient to a literally lost soul, unable to find his way back to his room once he has reached the end of the hall. He fell twice last month, the second time hard enough to knock himself out as he hit the corner of a brick column on his way to the floor. The wound is healing well, but for several weeks he had a spectacular row of stitches in the middle of his forehead.

He still knows me. Not my name, such labels have ceased to hold meaning for him. But as soon as he sets eyes on me, his whole face lights up with the delighted grin of a four year-old child. He gives me a tight hug, like a young one seeking comfort because he has found himself in a scary place. I give him what little comfort I can, grateful my presence seems to help just a little.

His grasp on the spoken word is tenuous - it's fascinating to listen to him. Many words are unrecognizable, but his tone and emphasis remain clear. It's easy to tell if he's happy, worried, angry, thoughtful, curious, or confused, so I can respond in kind, and we can have a conversation of sorts.

After his last tumble, his family called in hospice. *sigh of relief* I like hospice. They've brought in their arsenal of drugs, and he is no longer heart-breakingly anxious. His anger is calmed away. 

One day last month, I was cleaning up his room with one of the aides, and said something about talking to him to show him how to something. She looked at me and quietly said, "Don't try. It won't work. He is gone."

gone? gone. 

She was right. His body is still here, but his mind will grasp no new concepts. He is no longer able to learn.

I've spent a lot of time since then waving goodbye, letting go. I've been working to untangle my heart strings from his; a difficult task given the many years of our close relationship. 

In many ways, it is easier now he is ungrounded in place and time. Once when I came, he was lost in slumber, unable to rouse himself for more than a minute or two at a time. That was the easiest visit because he was at peace.

His family doesn't share details of anything with me, but I know the presence of hospice means they expect the end of his life's journey is in sight. I can hope.

Each visit, as I leave, I untuck my feelings and let the tears flow. I pray to St. James, my friend from the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela on El Camino. I ask him to stay near; to be ready to accompany his fellow disciple home when the time comes for Bob to be set free. I pray his time to be free will come soon.