No Saints around Here: A Caregiver’s Days

Absent Friends

88 ABSENT FRIENDS June 7 James and I are not used to being invisible. Before Parkinson’s bit so unshakably into James, and before I stopped writing in order to care for him, the two of us were certainly not celebrities, but we were not an unknown couple. Publicity about his architecture and my books appeared here and there. During those active years, we were frequently invited to dinners and parties. James in particular brought amiability and energy to any gathering, and he reveled in telling anecdotes. Because I have always been curious about people, I like to ask questions, and I can tell a few stories too. So we found ourselves on some guest lists. This was good news for James. He loved going out and entertaining in return, but I was much less eager for a social life. I was happier to stay at home with James. My idea of a blissful evening? A quiet dinner, a good book, PBS’s Mystery Theater. This was one of the ongoing compromises in our marriage. We would both laugh when someone asked, “So, do you entertain quite a bit?” because James would always reply, “Oh, almost never!” and I would simultaneously groan, “Oh, yes, far too often!” I thought of all this last week at a neighborhood barbeque. absent friends 89 The much younger and very nice couple next door, with two charming children, were the hosts. Together with other families in the block, they had planned a potluck, and they cordially invited us—even assuring me, kindly, that I would not need to bring anything. They do see the daily march of mycaregiving aides coming and going. All Sunday afternoon James was very excited. He kept asking if it was time to go to the party yet. (It wasn’t.) His days are very much the same, so this barbeque sounded to him like a celebratory event. He hadn’t been to a party for at least two or three years. We are no longer invited anywhere. This is not puzzling. James’s difficulty in communicating makes conversation awkward. Poignantly , he still assumes that he would always be a welcome guest. In late afternoon, when I heard voices and knew the party had begun, I told James—who was dressed very smartly for the occasion , bright sport shirt, colorful slacks—that we would go now but not remain long. “You need to eat by 6:00,” I reminded him, “if we’re going to get you to bed by 7:30. And I don’t think we can stay for the barbeque itself.” “Oh, no,” said James firmly, “I want to stay for the barbeque!” “Well, we’ll see,” I said, but I dialed our oven to 350 degrees so I could pop two frozen salmon cakes inside as soon as we got home. We crossed through a gap in the hedge to our neighbors’ backyard. Several tables and chairs dotted the grass, and a table with drinks and snacks had been set up near the barbeque. Beyond the table, maybe four or five yards away, a cluster of ten or twelve people stood talking, clinking glasses, and laughing. We knew only a few of them. Our neighborhood is a small enclave of mostly older, substantial houses, well kept up, close to a beautiful city lake. Many are newer homeowners, doctors, lawyers, or successful businessmen. They lead very active lives. Those we know always greet us absent friends 90 cordially, but we seldom see them. We also no longer swim in forward-rushing currents. James stood, leaning on his cane. “Shall we sit down?” I asked him, pointing to the nearest table. “No, no, I want to stand!” he said impatiently. He kept looking eagerly toward the tight-knit group. I knew he wanted to join them. He always headed for the middle of any group of people who were enjoying themselves. But I didn’t feel like edging forward , breaking into the fast chatter, and determinedly introducing ourselves. I also knew that, even if I did, James would not be able to enter into the conversation. I am not shy, but I was tired. Suddenly this all seemed too much effort. For several minutes we stood by ourselves. Then I asked gently, “Shall we sit down now, James?” He nodded. We sat. Our hostess came over, greeted us graciously, and offered to fetch us drinks. Then...