We’ve been living with Ken’s dad since September 2020. Initially we’d moved east to be near him, renting a home about 30 minutes away. As Grampy approached 90, we’d started envisioning the future. A duplex, maybe, so caregivers could come and go and we’d have eyes on him but our own home. He didn’t like the idea of assisted living.
Then a pandemic and a pivot. Life on an island with zero Covid cases seemed wise as we barreled toward what was predicted to be a deadly winter. We rented a house from friends, where Grampy had his own suite and a throne near the TV in the huge octagonal living room. It felt like an extended vacation for all of us. Even when he got bladder cancer and we helped him recover from two surgeries, it still felt like some weird version of playing house.
I’ve always been sensitive to atmosphere. Those amorphous things that hang out in air molecules. The invisible stuff that takes up a lot of psychic space (my thoughts on “energy” and “vibes” and all the invisible stuff will be a longer essay). I regularly rearrange rooms, maybe because I have interior decorator in my blood, but also because I can’t stand stagnancy. I make the bed at bedtime if I forgot to do it in the morning because if I don’t, I’ll lie down and find the leftovers of last night’s dream lingering above the pillow. If pillows aren’t sufficiently fluffed, I’ll get dragged back into the sensations I’d forgotten when I got up that morning (if you also experience this, please reach out. I haven’t met another human who knows what I’m talking about).
By most measures, Grampy was incredibly easy to live with. He recovered physically from all the stress to his body (though it took a visible toll on his mental faculties). He got a bluetooth hearing aid we could pipe the tv into, so the rest of us didn’t have to hear Rachel Maddow yelling. He made his own breakfast, tended the fire.
Last spring, we finally moved back into our own home. Ken had added a second bathroom for his dad and a glorified sleeping closet for our daughter. This was in addition to the major renovations he’d finished in 2019, just in time for us to move away. The last time we lived in our home it was about 500 square feet with a single doorless bedroom. Our child was 3 and I was majorly depressed. Now it has a huge living/dining room with four skylights. There are multiple closets and so many doors.
It was different after we moved. We weren’t living in a vacation rental anymore, we were home. In a space we’d created, as an extension of ourselves. Yet our living room was smaller than the last one, and with the tv always on, I didn’t really want to be in there. Grampy (and the silent tv) took up a lot of psychic space. He was still another person to feed and anticipate the needs of. He was always there.
Maybe it’s my temperament, or artistic inclinations, or inherited mental health stuff, but I’m pretty sure I’m not meant to live with anyone. The chapters of my life when I lived alone were my freest, maybe because I was young and had few responsibilities, but also because of atmosphere. The air was so still, clean. There were no other’s thoughts or moods or needs swirling around. It could still get stagnant, but when it did, I moved the furniture.
The decision to move Grampy was multifaceted. He aged a lot in a couple years. He stopped driving, so was often stuck on a mountaintop. Relying on ferries isn’t great when you require regular medical care. After two helicopter trips, Ken and his brother in Portland started discussing a move to assisted living down there. When the bladder cancer returned, it was clearly time.
We were also burning out. When we came back to the island, Ken and I made a pact that we wouldn’t allow ourselves to become martyrs. I’d been through chapters of resenting my partner, my home, parenting and an island for robbing me of certain freedoms. Eventually, I started resenting Grampy, too. His presence, and the role I was expected to play.
Grampy is settling into his spot in Portland now. He’s meeting his neighbors and eating in the dining hall. Shabbat and shopping are on his calendar. Staff members come take his vitals each morning and make sure he doesn’t mix up his medication. Across the street there’s a rehab facility where he’ll probably stay after his next surgery. Everyone is nice to him and there are no ferries.
Some friends say we’re saints for taking on the caregiving, others are clearly uncomfortable when I admit my current relief. We’re working through how we feel about all of it, but it helps to remember we had a different plan originally, and then we had to make a series of pivots. Kinda like life.
There is relief. My child is in school all day (except for when it snows or school is on break or she’s sick, like today). There’s no tv in my living room. No one is going to call out to me in the middle of my writing. There’s not much difference between interruption and the possibility of interruption. Now the air is still. Yesterday I stared out the window. That’s an activity for me—an almost-sacred practice—letting the thoughts wander, finding some order in my mind. It’s transcendence*, it’s play. There is new room in my life. Writing can be my #1 priority.
(Optional) Assignment:
Set an alarm for 15 minutes and stare out a window. Seriously. A nice view is great, but it doesn't really matter. It’s about what happens in your mind when it’s allowed to wander.
* I know I’m going to write about transcendence a lot, so for clarity, when I say the word, I mean timelessness. Outside our common understanding of space and clock-time. Something lofty and totally basic. Play. ICYMI: A few weeks ago I wrote about Paul K. Chappell’s definition of the word—“not an escape from reality, but a way to journey deeper into reality”—and its place among the other non-physical basic human needs.
It's a new era. The world is ready for more of your words!
Can I stare out *your* window, because daaamn!