A Wistful, Wondrous Walk

It must’ve been a big night at the beach for the gulls, for those around me are sleeping it off. Soft feather rounds of white and cloud-gray, they curl their necks gracefully to tuck beaks beneath wings. Gentle ripples of lace-edged blue water brush the sand while flashes of sunshine dance on the Sound’s dips and peaks. 

Over recent months, it’s been hard to quell heartache as the war in Ukraine grinds on, Tyre’s family mourns, and earthquakes devastate cities and families. But as I stroll the beach, the soft rumble of a song vibrates in my throat with no conscious direction on my part. I assume it’s a good sign to be moved to music, an indication that the drone of must-do’s and bad-news has quieted for this respite. 

 

So, what has my heart punched in on my inner juke box? I don’t immediately know, have to let that rumble play on a bit while I process the rhythm.  John Lennon. Recognition of the artist comes first, then the melody: “Love, love, love….” Pleased by my selection and the frame of mind reflected, I meander, admiring the scatter of shells and wedge-shaped prints of my seagull companions. 

 

Milky jingle shells of peach, lemon, and cream, fragile in their flavorful colors, mingle with eggplant-purple mussels and brown and white slipper snails. I cup my hand and start a collection. 

 

A flash of green catches my eye: beach glass, rare in this age of recycling. As a child during summers in Rhode Island, hours with my sisters and friends passed unnoticed as we scoured the shore for remnants of soft drink bottles and those of our fathers’ favorite beers. We’d call out the colors as we found them, “White! Brown! Aqua,” all those bottles of Schlitz, Miller, and Coke broken, tumbled, and rounded by rolling waves and shifting sand. Occasionally we’d happen upon gems of red, blue, or violet from Milk of Magnesia and old apothecary jars. 

 

Laddered white lifeguard stands face the water seeming still to keep watch. A clutch of gulls, adolescents I think, gaze toward the horizon, contemplative as any beachgoer. With a keen sense of flow and design, Nature has painted their speckled feathers the same pattern and hues as the slipper snails. As I bend to pick up a snow-white clam shell, Lennon’s hopeful song of human harmony spools through my mind, and I step, splash, reach for a shell, step, splash, hum. “Love, love, love…” 

 

Suddenly I stop, suffused with wonder. Someone – a child pausing from turning cartwheels? A smitten teen? An adult like me, moved by an inner song? – has spelled a word with shells in the sand: LOVE. Yes! Love! I can almost hear the heavenly horn section blaring a brassy accompaniment as the Universe smiles, and uplifted, I walk on.    

   

What? No Hugs?

The days run, one into the other, and it’s hard to pinpoint when change really set in. When was the last day that felt pretty normal?  For a long stretch, the Coronavirus was a challenge for the people of China and Italy, but not for us. Hasn’t that been the way for so many things? Wildfires in Australia, mudslides in Thailand, drought in the west, blizzards, tornadoes, and earthquakes – all devastating and tragic, but mostly devastating and tragic for others.  We are learning that we were kidding ourselves; those never were losses just for others. Always, we have been in this together, but if the planet’s protests were distant, it was easy to see them as separate from us.  

Now, distance, even of the social kind, is required. When most we want to meet up at Old Post Tavern or Molto, hug each other like crazy, devour some hot pasta, and share a bottle of wine, we can’t.  Our comfort and answer to hard times has always been long-lasting hugs, beloved faces as close as we can get them, and eyes soft with empathy holding ours.  What kept us afloat in the past is now dangerous.  

A week ago, I made my first stock-up-for-real trip to the grocery store.  There was not a roll of toilet paper to be had, but oddly, I, like others, had laid in a supply a few days before, so no worries. There was plenty of food on the shelves, and the usual number of shoppers. Everyone was cheerful and friendly as we strove to maintain maximum space between us while navigating the aisles with full shopping carts. 

I ran into Cathy, Mary Ellen, and Linda, friends I don’t see often.  Shelter-in-place had not yet been urged, dinner plans with others had not been cancelled, restaurants and gyms were still open, and yet, somehow we must have sensed what was coming, for my heart filled upon seeing them. We opened our arms wide, miming an embrace from six feet apart, and said,  “It’s sooo good to see you! This is my hug!” Each encounter was similar, and the faux-hugs were funny; we hadn’t missed out on too many real ones yet. 

Last Sunday night, Dave and I took pasta, spinach, and a saucepan of (meatless) sausages and peppers to Casey and PJ’s for dinner.  When PJ met us at the door, Tallulah, the dog, scrabbled at the stoop striving to escape, and Eleanor gazed out at the driveway from PJ’s arms. When she spotted us, her face lighted, her mouth opened wide, and she clapped and said, “Yayyyyyy!” a greeting I will treasure forever. I handed PJ the grocery bag in trade for the baby.  She put her arms around me, her head on my shoulder, and kick, kick, kicked those chubby little legs. Ah, hugs!  That one was a ten!  

Casey was on her computer, processing the news that Lululemon had just announced the closure of all stores. For her, this was sobering, as she’d opened her new, twice-the-square-footage, store three days before. Given the situation, I was relieved, not wanting my daughter exposed to the virus in the course of a day selling yoga-wear.  We had a tasty dinner while watching “Outbreak,” Casey’s choice. I consider myself lucky she hadn’t selected “Night of the Living Dead,” although that, too, was among the “Masochists’ Delight” listed in the Boston Sunday Globe. 

Did we hug PJ and Casey good-bye when we parted that night?  I think we did. How long will the sense of those hugs have to last?

Tucker, Lisa, Paul, and Lexi came to visit two weeks ago, so we had snuggles in abundance then. We’ve chatted via FaceTime twice in the interim as they work from home with the kids buzzing about. 

Four-year-old Paul is newly captivated by the word “poopy” and is generous in its application. Lexi, at 17 months, wants to hold the phone. So, the phone spins in its travels as Tucker strives to right it, and Lexi makes her moves. We see the ceiling, Lexi’s grin, Tucker’s thumb, and Paul’s sparkling eyes as he answers our questions about his day with a jubilant, “Poopy!”

Several times, Dave has participated in staff meetings on ZOOM, like Google-Hangouts, an extraordinary tool that will be the saving grace of businesses and relationships during our Coronavirus isolation. During his first practice session, I snuck a peek at his computer to see the beloved faces of my former colleagues ranged in tiny boxes around the screen, each waving at me from the security of their homes. Again, my heart surged to see them.  “Look at you!  It’s so good to see you!” I crowed, and oh, how I felt it. Hugs are out of the question, but even visuals are a boost. 

For a few weeks, Casey has been texting me, “Mom. I’m worried about you and Dad.  You have to take this seriously. You are in the vulnerable age range.” Her concern is dear, and I’ve assured her, “Dad and I are great. We’re healthier than a lot of people younger than us. Don’t worry.” When dire reports of danger to the elderly emerged, my mind went to Dave’s 95-year-old mother. Certainly they don’t mean us… 

But, they do. Two nights ago on CNN, anchor Jake Tapper seemed almost teary as he spoke of his forty-year-old friend who has the virus, as well as his concern for his 80-year-old father.  Tapper shed his role as a newsman for a moment as he made an emotional plea for social distancing. He was critical of youthful revelers in Florida who were still packing beaches and bars, and said something like, “Who the hell do you think you are?  You might think you’re safe because of your youth, but think of older members of your family.”

Dave was solemn when he turned off the TV. “That was unnerving,” he said. “I think I’ll skip the news for a while.” 

So, we’re hunkered down at home and choosing movies over news. Have you seen “Knives Out”? So fun! Watch it on Netflix!

We live in the woods, so we can go for walks, and wave at our neighbors. Dave loves to cook and we’ve been eating well: asparagus and mushrooms in a lemon-wine sauce over pasta; roasted salmon, mashed potatoes, and spinach, with plenty of leftovers for lunch. Dave’s baking his bread, so our breakfast routine is unchanged: Dave’s toast, butter, jelly, and coffee. This afternoon, I might make a chocolate chip yogurt cake. 

Beyond that, I’ve enjoyed a lot of phone visits. I have projects to do, an attic and basement to clean, essays to write, and that cake to bake, but given the uncertainty and suppressed worry, connection has been my comfort. Long chats, emails, and texts have filled the days: with my mother-stand-in, Mom’s friend, Beverly; my sisters, aunts, cousins, and in-laws; my friends from work and friends I’ve loved from kindergarten through college. Many I haven’t hugged in years, but it’s important now to make contact. 

Next to my senior year picture in the 1971 Farmington yearbook, reflective young girl that I was, I chose Joni Mitchell’s lyric as my quote, “Don’t it always seem to go you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone?” At the time, my nostalgia was about friends and the school; never would I have imagined what we’re currently facing, that hugs would be denied me. 

Virtual hugs to you all! Stay safe!

Dave's Bread

Every few weeks, Dave gets out an enormous antique white porcelain bowl. He scoops in grits, corn meal, oatmeal, and teff, then pours in boiling potato water.  He doesn’t measure anything. He lets this brown watery soup sit for a while, then adds warmed honey, heated beer, milk, yeast, and a mix of flours. Finally he blends them, stirring laboriously with a large wooden spoon. The batter is then left to rise, occasionally puffing over the sides of the bowl onto the counter. 

Dave has always enjoyed making bread, but it became a loving, healing compulsion when I started chemo ten years ago. 

On matters of diet, my oncologist was firm: no whites. No white flour, no white rice, no white sugar, no white potatoes. I live on bread and pasta, and mashed potatoes are my absolute favorite, so this was grim news. Chemo steals appetite and perverts taste, so finding foods I could eat, much less enjoy, was going to be a challenge. Dave, my dearest Dave, pursued that challenge at every meal.   

I loved the English muffin bread Dave baked periodically, but white flour was the primary ingredient, so he upended the recipe, substituting oatmeal, quinoa, amaranth, and rye flours for that forbidden white.  The combinations varied with every baking, as did the addition of corn meal, beer, honey or molasses. Always, the kitchen filled with an aroma that conveyed health, caring, and coziness. The result was darker than the original, made to be toasted, tasty on its own, and delicious with butter, jam, or honey.  (I know, you’re reading this and dying for a slice right now.)  

Ever since, we’ve begun each day with coffee and two slices of toast. Also since then, friends have gotten frightening diagnoses or lost loved ones.  What does one do in the face of illness, fear, and sorrow? 

Dave bakes, and gives bread. As a result, his batches have increased, as has the frequency of baking. He loves the robust mixing and miraculous rise, and we both love the comfort of an oven radiating warmth and heavenly smells, as well as the thought of the pleasure those loaves might bring. 

Love is always life’s most necessary ingredient, now more than ever it seems. A piece or two of Dave’s hot, buttered toast is like adding a heart and body-sustaining hug. 

Christmas Spirits

A handwritten sign for a tag sale on Meriweather Lane caught my eye as I drove home after some Christmas shopping.  A tag sale!  In December!  Did I really want or need to shuffle around a chilly garage perusing someone’s cast-offs?  Of course not.

But I took the left on Meriweather, pulled over to the curb in front of a brick McMansion, and parked.  I silenced the radio and Perry Como’s jolly partridges and pears and pocketed my keys.  As I walked up the driveway, a dog barked inside the house, and a male voice called out, “Be there in a minute!  Just putting on a sweater!”

The garage door gaped open to admit me, watery sunlight, and raw cold.  Tables laden with books, worn holiday decorations, tin cookie cutters, clay molds, stacks of vinyl record albums, craft supplies, and a battalion of miniature Eiffel Towers were set wherever they could fit.  I had to inch past a folded wheelchair to view items toward the back.

Drawn by the cover illustration of a koala, I flipped through the pages of a children’s book.  The colorful pictures of raccoons, owls, and bears were appealing, so I decided to buy it for my grandson, Paul. Other than that, my browsing was done and when the homeowner appeared, I was ready to leave.

He was pale and slight of build, and his flyaway, graying hair was disheveled, no doubt from the tussle with his argyle sweater.  He gave me a rundown on general pricing then added, “unless it’s something unique... like Susan’s wheelchair.”

He was clearly disappointed when I held up my lone find.

“Oh.  Well. That’ll be $.25.”

As I rooted about in my pocketbook for a quarter, I remarked on his courage in holding a December tag sale.

“Truthfully, I’ve been holding them off and on since July.  My wife – that’s her wheelchair – died in June.”

“Oh no.  I’m so sorry….”

“They wanted to put Susan in a home, but I promised her that as long as I lived I would take care of her here.  And I did.”

His eyes reddened as he spoke with admiration of Susan’s degrees, career, and command of five languages.  “When I think of her at a podium, speaking before large audiences… or here, hosting parties for her students… yes, she was like that.  We always had groups of students around.  And then," he paused, his voice wavering, "she had a stroke.  So, take care of any little health issues you have: high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes.  These took Susan down.”

He pulled out a handkerchief and wadded it to his eyes as tears flowed. My own eyes filled as I imagined the difference in this man and this house when Susan - vibrant, brilliant Susan - was here as companion and hostess. 

Christmas is poignant even in the absence of loss.  The plastic bins hauled from our attic are filled with memories.  Christmases past are layered between white sheets of tissue: popsicle stick ornaments made by my kids in elementary school, the velveteen Santa from my parents for Tucker’s first Christmas.  Ornaments of bread dough and papier mache that conjure family craft projects in the early eighties.  So many Santas, angels, and artfully decorated Styrofoam balls given or created over the years by friends and family.  I miss those days when my own parents were youthful and strong, when our kids, giddy with excitement, snuggled in bed to wait for Saint Nicholas.

But Christmas Present is richly blessed!  The day itself has not yet arrived, and Dave and I have already celebrated in Rhode Island with my side of the family.  We attended a joyful musical performance at our grandniece’s school and reveled at the cascades of confetti at its end. We have gathered with friends over too-much food, joined the shopping bustle at Barnes and Noble and the mall, and listened, happily, to countless versions of “White Christmas.” And we helped our daughter and her husband prepare for their first party in their new house.

How many times have I looked over at my Dave through all these festivities and felt a prickle in my nose at seeing that dear, beaming face loving these people and cherishing these moments as fully as I am?  Soon enough, these will be the days that make me misty even as now I miss their brethren past.

We recently discovered a treasure from 1982, a tape of Tucker reciting "The Night Before Christmas” with the help of a few cues whispered in the background by his dad.  Dave and I listen and smile, eyes bright and damp as our little one’s childish sing-song voice announces, “BUMPF! Down the chimney Saint Nicholas came with a bound,” adding that ”BUMPF!” as we always did in reading the story to him, just as we add it now while reading to Paul.  And Paul hoots, “BUMPF!” with the same exuberance his father once did.

Recently my sister Rita sent a nostalgic text after she’d re-read a commemorative book she’d made with the hymns, readings, and eulogies from my dad’s funeral.  “I honestly thought it had been four years [since he died],” she wrote, “I’m losing time!  It’s been six!”  It’s hard to believe my big, solid, mischievous, boisterous, funny, beloved father has been among the ghosts of Christmases past for that long.

The other night, Dave and I were out to dinner at Molto, one of our favorite restaurants. Surrounded by the chatter, lights, and festivity of the season, I borrowed Dave’s handkerchief and tearfully confessed my maudlin musings.  I mentioned my nostalgic memories, and touched on my clash of joy, guilt, and sorrow in the staggering contrast between our lives and the suffering people of Syria, the hurricane-bereft homeless in Florida and Puerto Rico, and yes - the starving children of India.   I was on a roll, and I snuffled into his handkerchief while ranting about our poor country, upended by violence and inept governance. 

Dave regarded me, his brow furrowed with loving frustration.  “You have too many black crayons in your crayon box,” he said.

Maybe.  Maybe.  But it’s not so much about shadows as wishing everyone could have it as good as we do.  And I want better from our leaders. As he did to Scrooge, I want Dickens’s Marley to shake his chains and wail in fury at those driven by power and money. I want them to absorb his remorse over his pursuit of gold when he should have known that “mankind was my business.  The common welfare was my business:  charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were all my business.  The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”  Let’s add the health of the planet and well-being of our fellow creatures to that list, while we’re at it.

And oh, how I wish Susan were still here to celebrate Christmas with her grieving husband on Meriweather Lane.  After paying for the koala book, it was time to leave.  Why would I linger longer in that cold, sad garage? In parting, I drew the man in his argyle sweater into my arms, and the two of us cried and held each other.  Then I returned to the blessing of Perry Como and my cozy car for the drive home to my Dave.   

A Bride, but for the Buttons...

When I joined the girls in the bridal suite at the Inn at Longshore on the morning of the wedding, beautiful bouquets of white roses and pale green succulents rested in water-filled vases atop a round walnut coffee table.  Duffle bags and shoes littered the floor along one wall.  In the bedroom, flowing chiffon dresses in varying shades of gray hung from hangers hooked over the door.  In their midst, an oversized garment bag, promising in its puffiness, cloaked the wedding gown from view. 

Casey and her bridesmaids were red of lips and flawless of complexion through the wonders of youth and cream foundation. Lengthy false lashes fringed their eyes.    They nibbled strawberries and sipped champagne from slender flutes, striving to minimize jaw and lip movement that might create creases and smudges in their make-up.  Each of the maids wore yoga pants and a black tank top with “Bride Tribe” inscribed across the chest; Casey’s tank was white and declared her the “Bride.”

While Casey and several of the girls were lavishly coifed with hair pinned, braided, and twisted, Lisa, Casey’s cousin-by-marriage, sat immobile in a chair, still in process as the hairdresser worked her craft with a curling iron and blow dryer.

By 1:30, the assembly of maidens was ready.  Casey and PJ’s “First Look” photos were scheduled for 3:15, the bridal party at 4:00, families at 4:30, and the service at 5:30.  Easy. Plenty of time.

Lindsay, the matron of honor and Casey’s friend since childhood, had ordered lunch. The girls bit off tiny pieces of pizza with their teeth, carefully drawing back their lips to avoid contact with greasy cheese.  We wondered how their elaborate hairstyles and make-up would remain fresh for the next ten hours. 

Throughout the day, the photographer, Monika, had been in and out of the suite, taking shots of the make-up and hair-styling process, capturing the girls’ excitement as they helped each other with hair pins, curls, mascara, and eyeliner. The flower girls, two Avas and one Tessa, arrived in voluminous tulle dresses, as proud as the princesses they resembled.

Suddenly it was 2:45 and the tempo shifted from languid to bustling.  As the girls padded across the carpet and lifted their dresses off the hangers, I zipped upstairs to take pictures of the groomsmen.  Such a different scene between the men and the women!  No make-up to blot or lipstick to freshen, just a little help with each other’s ties, a quick swig of beer, a glance at the TV to see how the game was going, then shrug on their jackets.

 “Where’s Tucker?” PJ, my soon-to-be-son-in-law, asked me.

“Tucker?” I said blankly, glancing around the small room as if perhaps PJ had missed seeing my son in the chair by the window.  PJ was correct; Tucker was not there.

“He’s a groomsman,” PJ said.

This I knew.  But Tucker was also “family,” and the time I’d heard bandied about whenever schedules had been discussed at home had been the time for family photos:  4:30.  Oh dear. 

I also knew that Tucker and Lisa had Paul to contend with, and like scientists tweaking the timing on a new experiment, they’d been adjusting my grandson’s feedings and naptimes in order to ensure, as best they could, a cheerful child during his big moment as ring-bearer.  It must also be said that Tucker is a Sylvestro and they are not known for punctuality or attention to schedules.

Stomach knotted, I called Dave.  He said there’d been a misunderstanding.  Just as I’d thought, Tucker had keyed in on the time for family photos. I could imagine the wild scuffle when that error was discovered, but Dave said not to worry; they would arrive at the inn “soon.”  Wisely, he opted not tell me how recently they had left.  We live half an hour away and “soon” might be a while yet.  Sternly, I glowered down my hand-wringing inner control freak, forced her into retreat, and went back downstairs to Casey and the bridesmaids.

It was time for my girl to unveil her dress, slip it on, smooth the soft fabric over her hips, and zip up.  Again, easy.

Back in the spring, after coming up empty at The Plumed Serpent and Kleinfelds, Casey, her friend Jayme, and I tried another bridal boutique:  A Little Something White.  When we met our rep, Kelly, we liked her immediately.  She was friendly and relaxed, and made us feel she cared as much about this dress as we did.

Casey had run through her usual list of “don’t wants”: no satin, no strapless, no bright white.  She was cheerful, but by this time, the search seemed more urgent. In addition to our prior hunts, she and Lindsay had taken a jaunt up to Madison.  There, she found a dress she liked, but still, she wasn’t smitten.  And at every store she’d visited, she’d been unnerved when the salespeople looked startled upon learning the wedding date.  “Wow.  So soon?  You mean September of this year? We better get on it then!”   

The dresses arrayed for Casey’s consideration at A Little Something White were lovely, some ivory, some lacey, some V-necked.  Several were satin, strapless, and bright white.  My inner bitch was whipping off snide remarks about Kelly’s listening skills, but apparently she knew her business better than I knew my girl, for when Casey emerged in one such gown, her face was beaming… beaming. I gazed in wonder at my beautiful daughter.  “Omigod sweetie.  It’s gorgeous.  You are gorgeous.”

Jayme had her phone in hand and up before her eyes and was snapping photos while Casey turned and swished, her eyes shining as she followed her image in the mirror.  “Still, maybe we should go back to Madison and try on that other dress again?” she said.

“Absolutely,” Kelly encouraged her.  “And when you’re there, compare that option to this dress… the way you look, the way it makes you feel.  Imagine yourself walking down the aisle toward your fiancé and think about that moment.  Which dress do you want to be wearing?”

For a minute, Casey was quiet… then she burst into tears and said, “This one!”

And now, it’s time.  As if embracing a beloved friend, Casey wraps her arms around the impressive garment bag and lifts it from its mount on the closet door.  She lays the bag on the bed, unzips it, and slides out her stunning, satin, strapless, bright white dress.  Having stripped off her tank top and yoga pants, she steps into the gown and shimmies as she pulls it up and into place.  Monika calls in from the adjacent room, “Are you dressed?”

“Almost!  Just have to do up the buttons.”

Monika enters and directs Casey and me to stand near the window.  She wants the muted light to glaze this wonderful mother-daughter moment:  Casey, statuesque, a bridal goddess, her mom bending with matronly pride and calm to fasten the satin-covered buttons that will mask the zipper.

But shit, this dress is tight, tight and form-fitting to complement Casey’s voluptuous figure and eliminate the need for bodice-tugging when the dancing begins.  And the zipper and its attendant buttons (endless buttons!) start at mid-back and flow in a graceful, sinuous line down to the floor. Plus, the designer in his wisdom felt that slim loops of thread would be just right to secure the buttons, just right if they weren’t ripped out by fumbling fingers, fingers now rushed, sweaty, and totally inept because this impossible task was taking forever and it was time for Casey to go for the “First look” and there were still countless buttons to fasten.

“Perhaps some of the bridesmaids might help the mother?” says the photographer sweetly, her eyes kind, her Swedish accent appealing and non-accusing.

Lindsay and Karis, the maid of honor and Casey’s partner in conquering Asia, lend their lithe fingers to the task, the three of us fighting with those little loops.  “Does anyone have a crochet hook?” Karis asks with a laugh that holds a twinge of hysteria.  Of course no one does, but that’s what we need. 

“How about this?” asks Lisa, and a bobby pin is passed from hand to hand.  Oh honestly, a bobby pin?  Yes!  For picking locks and securing innumerable fabric-covered buttons, a bobby pin does the trick.  Thank god.  The three of us step back, waving hands ineffectually before our faces, the girls patting – not rubbing! Careful of the make-up! – their glistening foreheads.

And Casey is ready.  Her auburn hair twisted in elaborate braids and loops at the back of her head.  Her dress, sleek and lustrous, those damn buttons tracing a graceful line down her back to the floor.  Her precious face reflecting a welter of nervousness and joy.  With the back of a curved finger - and mindful of mascara, eyeliner, and lush lashes - she blots tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks.  We, her maids and mother, stand in a circle of loving admiration. She gives us a radiant smile and thumbs up, then leaves the room to show PJ his bride.

                                                         

All by Design

Must have been a big night at the beach for the gulls, for those around me are sleeping it off. Soft feather rounds of white and cloud-gray, gracefully they curl their necks to tuck beaks beneath wings. Gentle ripples of lace-edged blue water brush the sand while further out, glints of sunshine dance on the Sound’s dips and peaks.

Over the past few days, I have found myself humming as I sponge counters, fold laundry, drive, or walk in the woods. Today as I stroll the beach, the soft rumble of a song vibrates in my throat, with no conscious direction on my part. I assume it’s a good sign to be moved to music, an indication that the drone of must-dos has been superseded by quiet joy. So what has my heart punched in on my inner juke box? I don’t immediately know, have to let the rumble play on a bit while I process the rhythm. John Lennon. Recognition of the artist comes first, then the tune, “Love, love, love…” Pleased by my selection and the frame of mind reflected, I continue on, noting the scatter of shells at the water’s-edge and the wedge-shaped prints of my seagull companions.

Milky jingle shells of peach, lemon, and cream, fragile in their flavorful colors, mingle with eggplant-purple mussels and brown and white speckled rock-a-bye baby shells. I cup one hand to hold the start of a collection.

A flash of green stops me: beach glass, rare in this age of recycling. As a child, during summers in Weekapaug, hours passed with sisters and friends scouring the sands for remnants of soft drink bottles and those of our fathers’ favorite beers. We’d call out the colors as we found them, “White!” “Brown!” “Aqua!” All of those bottles of Schlitz, Miller and Coke, broken, tumbled, and rounded by rolling waves and sand. Occasionally, we’d happen upon gems of red, blue or purple from Milk of Magnesia and old apothecary jars.

Laddered white lifeguard stands facing the sea seem still to keep watch despite empty seats. Ferries to and from Bridgeport and Port Jeff cut through the water. A clutch of gulls, adolescents, I think, gaze toward the horizon, contemplative as any beach-goer. In their brown and white speckled feathers, Nature, with her keen sense of flow and design, has painted them the same pattern as the rock-a-bye babies.

The sun shimmers silken strands of light as I bend, still humming my song of human harmony, to pick up a snow-white clamshell. Step, step, splash, step, reach for a shell, step, splash, hum. “Love, love, love…” And suddenly, I am suffused with wonder, for someone before me – a child pausing from turning cartwheels? A smitten teen? An adult, like me, moved by an inner song? - has spelled a word with shells in the sand: “LOVE.” Yes, love! I can almost hear the heavenly horn section blaring its brassy accompaniment as the Universe smiles, and beaming, I walk on.

More About Love Than Disease

Dave bends over one of four turkey-baster-like bulbs suspended in white cotton sacks from the imposing fifties-style bra that protects my new scarred, but implant-enhanced, breasts. Each rubber globe is attached to a two-foot long drain that snakes from my side. It is Dave’s job to “milk” the tubes and measure whatever fluid has collected. This will be an exciting new phase of our relationship.

Some men might shirk from such a task. Not my husband. A failed chemistry exam his junior year in high school crushed his hopes of being a doctor. He is positively giddy about exercising those untried medical skills.

His eyes are bright behind wire-rimmed glasses as he extracts bulb #1 from its pouch. He has drawn up a chart, to be typed later, with blocks to be filled in with dates, times and fluid amounts. My plastic surgeon is a babe – a babe he’d like to impress – and surely his attention to detail will not go unnoticed. Of course, he wants to take good care of me as well.

As he squeezes the tubing through his thumb and forefinger, I wince, anticipating a tug, but he is very gentle. He holds the bulb, trailing its accompanying drain, up to the light so we can study the level of liquid.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Um, 32?’

“Maybe it’s closer to 34,” he says, writing down that number on the chart.

This is not an exact science.

He repeats the process three more times. Our heads are bent close together, both of us watching his fingers and the movement of pink fluid through the tube.

I love Dave’s hands. Where both of us show our age in graying hair and lined skin, his hands haven’t changed in the thirty-seven years we’ve been together. They are strong and boyish, olive-skinned, and I have kissed those hands many times in the past few days after they’ve plumped my pillows, placed on my lap a tray of juice and melon garnished with a green sprig of fresh mint, helped me dress, washed my hair.

“I wish I could do this for you,” he has said of the cancer and surgery. “I wish it were happening to me instead.”

I know what he means. I know he hates the fact that he could not protect me. But, oh, I am grateful for the roles Fate has allocated. I can do this. I could not stand to watch Dave or one of our children endangered.

Many people, after asking how I’m doing, will ask, “and what about Dave? Is he okay?”
He has a good game face, and I think it’s sincere for now. My prognosis is excellent and now that I’m home, he can contribute to my well-being. “I can’t have the disease for you, but I can keep the house clean, cook, and take care of you.” He is the best of men.

When we were younger, often he’d wake to the sound of me sniffling into my pillow because I’d brought myself to tears in imagining him lost to some disaster. “How did you kill me off this time?” he’d ask in a voice of kind resignation.

I’d bawl, embarrassed that I’d bothered him, but glad, so glad, to have him with me, alert and well and whole, in our bed. “A car accident,” I’d sob. “The police had just called and I asked Steve to go with me to the hospital.” This happened more times than I care to confess. Dave would always pull me close and nuzzle my hair, kiss my cheeks, and say, “It’s not going to happen. I’m not going anywhere.”

It was as if I were practicing, hoping that if I lived through enough of the calls and funerals in my mental-movies, I’d be able to deal with it better when I had to. I’m not sure what made me stop those sad fantasies. As we got older, perhaps I worried I was putting too dangerous a possibility out to the Universe.

After the bulbs are empty, we go downstairs and Dave sets me up on the back porch. He arranges a backrest of pillows on the wicker loveseat and brings me a glass of ice water with a wedge of lemon on the rim. I write a few thank you notes while he does a crossword puzzle. I read a little. Some friends stop by. After an hour or so, I feel as whiny and petulant as a child needing a nap. It’s all I can do not to cry. I look desperately at Dave and catch his eye. He rises from his chair saying, “Great to see you! Lea needs to head in for a rest now.”

A new phase of our relationship indeed.

After I give good-bye hugs and kisses, Dave walks the guests to their car while I head inside and upstairs. I stop in Casey’s room to fetch her pink bunny from the top of her closet. I’d put him away soon after returning from the hospital in the belief that I didn’t need him anymore. Guess I was wrong. It still hurts to stretch my arms, but I want Pink Bun, so I stretch anyway and then shuffle to my bed clutching the flannel rabbit just like sleepy Casey used to do as a toddler.

Our bedroom is brilliant and aromatic with the colors and scent of countless flowers. Yellow roses, lavender irises, sunflowers, delphinium, lilies, snapdragons. A garish royal blue feather boa is draped over one window – a gift from my friend Gail who demonstrated with a flourish: “When people ask how you’re doing, flip the boa dramatically over your shoulder and say, ‘I feel marvelous!’”

A photograph of a sandy beach, with cobblestones arranged to form “LEA,” is on my bureau. I cried when Hallie gave it to me. So thoughtful, so enduring, my name in stone.

A teddy bear from our neighbors sits in the window, a healing angel from Sharon on my bedside table. I’ve received books, pajamas, meals, pies and brownies. Every day, Dave serves me a plate of daisy-shaped melon and pineapple, remnants of several “Edible Arrangements” from dear friends. A wooden bucket next to my bed is crammed with cards, not only from those I love, but some from my sister’s friends, from Carey’s friends, from relatives I rarely see, from acquaintances I know only from committees and meetings. I have been embraced and buoyed by waves of kindness.

But right now, I feel lonely and sad. I wish Dave were here.

He is downstairs, playing the piano ever-so-softly. Is he playing for fun or a lullaby for me? The song is Tom Waits’ “Serenade,” one of my favorites. I think of this song as the sound track of our lives: it is beautiful and poignant and Dave plays it often. I hold Pink Bun close and sniffle at my good fortune in all the love that surrounds me, and in this dearest of men at the piano.

“Serenade” ends and he shifts to something else. The melody is familiar; what is it? He’s playing it slower than usual, soulful, heart-felt. Ah, it’s The Beatles’ “She Loves You.”

Since my return from the hospital, as Dave has bustled about, joyfully bearing the newest lovely arrangement to my side, vacuuming, or making the bed, I have said, “Honey, do you know how much I love you?” He always says yes, but too often in taking him for granted, I’ve been snappish and dismissive. Does he see beyond that?

The piano is quiet. I hear footsteps on the stairs. As if he’s felt the pull of my loneliness, Dave has come to me. We smile at each other as he enters the room.