Up to Joe's final day. January 5, 1991: Atlanta, GA

All during December, Joe was slowly going down hill. He felt so bad at Christmas, he did not even want his close friends to visit him. He confided to me that the most upsetting aspect was that he had no more control over anything. I can only imagine how upsetting this must be for someone who had spent a life time trying to have the most balls in the air. Managing like that takes maximum control and Joe did it well. Now he was faced with no balls in the air and little control over that.
Thursday, the third, Joe went for treatment that consisted of receiving blood. Due to a recent shortage of that precious fluid, he got none and was sent home with instructions to return on Monday. Friday he got to toss his final ball into the air. We went to a furniture rental store and Joe purchased three pieces of used furniture with an overdraft check. He was adept at juggling finances like this by arriving at the bank with funds to cover a check he previously wrote. I think Joe knew he was not going to catch this ball by covering that check. He did admit, he wanted good furniture in his house for guests who attended his memorial service. It would be just like him to feel he was getting something for nothing, or in this case something for a worthless check. Friday afternoon, we received a nice couch and two overstuffed chairs. Joe had fun directing me in their placement. He even got to enjoy a brief sit.
Next morning Joe awoke complaining of weakness and pain. This was the worst I had seen him. Never before was he unable to get out of bed. Our first duty that morning was get him to a hospital. That was also unlike Joe, He did not mind going to his clinic for treatment, but I believe he felt that hospital meant, the process was coming to an end. However, his condition was probably overwhelming his denial. We secured an ambulance ride to Georgia Baptist Hospital, the closest to his house. Mother and I followed and met him in the emergency room. By the time we got there Joe was already beginning toxic delirium. No doubt his system was closing down.
We spent most of that day in the emergency room. It felt like they were expecting him to pass soon and did not want to admit him to a room. Apparently, his clinic withheld that final transfusion because they did not expect him to last till Monday. Their reasoning may have been to not waste blood on someone who was expected to die soon. This notion may have only been conjecture of the emergency room physician, but it disturbed me non the less. I was upset his clinic staff did not inform us they were expecting his passing, but allowed us to be led into hope that he could come back Monday and receive needed blood.
Irregardless, Joe was slipping away. His only contacts regarded his need to urinate. He often asked have me hold hid penis into a bottle. After a bit, he claimed he was finished, but nothing ever evacuated. It came to me maybe he was only using this excuse so that he could be held. Whatever, it worked. He also mentioned a couple of times that he was on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. It still looked like the emergency room to me. Finally, the hospital relented and allowed Joe to be brought up to a room. It was decided that his comfort was paramount. He was shifted upstairs, mother accompanied him, I went home for some rest. Mother called later and informed me Joe had slipped away peacefully.

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Staying till the end. Fall, 1991: Atlanta, GA

Staying till the end. Fall, 1991, Atlanta, GA
During the past year, since making a commitment to move to Atlanta and provide care for Joe, I managed to .gain respite by leaving briefly when Joe was having periods of feeling well. It seemed those periods were evaporating. His moments of well being hardly carried through the day. I accepted that I would now stay until the end. There was also very little other help available. Or whatever reason Joe was cutting himself off from friends and family alike. I could obtain very little insight into Joe’s mind, to garner why he wanted to cut people off. He formally had a network of friends who like himself were gay and infected with this dread disease.
Joe stated that he kept most of these folks away ,since he did not like their negative attitudes surrounding death. Perhaps these folks were working on becoming accepting of there demise, and Joe took that as an affront to his own denial concerning his own end. I am only surmising this, since Joe did not let on to his feelings concerning his end. He was able to joke about these being his final days. But he more adamantly professed the belief that a cure would be found for his illness. He would get most upset when after a visit to get medical care, he found a new treatment not working. I think that when Joe’s friends succumbed it further reminded him that a cure was not coming. He may have also wanted to block these friends from witnessing his own decline. I am only putting this tale together by extrapolating what I was able to witness. I had little else to go on since Joe would not confide with me his inner feelings. We kept our relationship at the surface and focused on day to day matters.
Joe not only isolated himself from friends but included family in the outer circle. He especially kept our mother at bay. She wanted to help attend to Joe but he would not permit it. I became obsessed in an effort to get them to reconcile whatever was keeping them separated. I was having no luck and only getting frustrated and exhausted by my efforts. Apparently Joe held his console with our sister, Karen. One evening just before retiring, Joe was engaged in his room with a lengthy phone conversation with her. I went to my room and prepared for bed. Before getting into bed, I dropped to my knees and acknowledged that I realized it was not my job to guide Joe’s reconciliation, gave it up, and surrendered that work to the Almighty. No sooner had I finished than I heard Joe dialing his rotary phone. He called our mother. The next morning she arrived in Atlanta and was soon joined by her sister, my Aunt Jeanne. It was the beginning of December and I was grateful to have extra help. We became focused on getting through the holidays.

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Getting back to Joe. August 1990: Atlanta, GA

Joe had returned to Atlanta from his excursion to Denver while I was taking a break in the Northeast. He had a memorable time especially the long train trip. He enjoyed that kind of travel and had not been able until now to make a lengthy excursion in that mode. It seemed though he wore himself out. He looked pale and haggard and although full of fond memories and load of pamphlets and flyers, it seemed this trip took a lot from him. For sure, he had missed his regular appointments for medical checkups and treatment. It occurred to both of us he may be entering the last leg of his journey in his struggle against AIDS. His mood likewise suffered. His bad days overtook his good ones. Not only was it difficult for him but also for those nearby.
I was perhaps the closest by virtue of living with him. Joe had always been fiesty and combative. It seemed his nature. He learned early to lash out at anything he perceived as threatening. He balanced that with a soft and generous side. The scales seemed to be tipping toward the negative as his disease progressed. Another aspect that may have entered the equation was onset of dementia. This is a strange illness in that it shows up in off hand ways and is difficult to clearly diagnose absent any concrete measurable symptoms. But at times something would seem off kilter. I can only imagine what it may have been like in Joe’s shoes. After all, he was the one who was facing perhaps the end of his life while all the while experiencing a decline in quality of life. I was only the outside observer.
I do not know if it was dementia or something else but an example of how something small could become odd with no clear reason could provide an example of how things were being faced. Besides physically feeling ill, Joe was facing financial difficulties. In this area he had always been adept at juggling the most balls with out mishap. How that his income was nil and expenses the same he had trouble keeping the same balls aloft. His truck had a damaged tire that while still holding air was unsafe and would not pass a coming vehicle inspection. It took him most of the day to find a dealer who could sell him a new tire for just about the balance Joe had in his checking account. I followed him to the dealer and gave him a ride home. Later when we went to pick up his truck the tire had not been changed but the truck had received a shampoo. Now we had a truck that looked good but would not pass inspection. We went round and round over this trivial matter and I felt hard pressed to make peace with Joe’s decisions.
My task was to try and stay calm, clear and collected while providing care for someone I loved who appeared to be on a down ward slope with little chance of turning that around. Joe had very little energy left for even smallest household tasks and this may have bothered him a lot, since he had always been active at cleaning and tidying his surroundings. He took most pride in how well he maintained his yards. He loved planting and caring for his vegetation. In the fall he would plant profusely with pansies. In Atlanta they would bloom all winter providing color when most of the world was turning bleak. It was falling more upon me to care for the landscape. I found work with my hands in the garden provided a sense of grounding that helped me maintain a positive attitude in care giving. Perhaps part of his legacy was to instill in me a penchant for working outdoors on my hands and knees digging in the dirt when all else seems amiss. Since then I take my times landscaping and gardening, ,lawn mowing and raking, clearing and hauling in the yard in order to prepare myself to deal with any difficulties that may arise. Thank you, Joe; it works.

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OK, I'll go. March 1976: Saint Petersburg, FL

In November, I was in Toronto, Ontario. A friend offered me a ticket to the Rolling Thunder Revue. Although, this concert featured many of my favorite artists and performers, I turned down the offer. I am not sure why, but perhaps, I planned to leave town before the performances. Christmas was spent on Martha’s Vineyard, hardly a venue for performances of this caliber. I reckoned I would just miss my opportunity to see my favorite poet, Bob Dylan. After Christmas, I left to visit a friend in Milford, Connecticut on my way to Florida. In the short time I was there another offer came my way.
Again, I was asked to attend Rolling Thunder Revue. Again I was looking toward my next location and did not want to hold back until this concert came to town. Shortly I left for Florida with mixed feelings. Part of me was in a hurry to get to Florida, another part was mourning the missed opportunity to enjoy my some of my favorite artists. It did not seem many more chances would come by again. After getting to Gainesville, my focus soon became joining with and engaging in the building of Free Spirit Farm, an alternative life style community. It took my mind of anything I may have missed. Now I was visiting with Stacy and Tallulah in Bradenton, Florida. The offer was repeated. These two wonderful women invited John and I to attend Rolling Thunder Revue in Saint Petersburg. I was not going to miss it again and decided to extend my visit until after the show left.
Since we had over a week to wait, it provided time to get acquainted with John. We had just met when he hooked up with Stacy. John was the first individual I knew who was tortured and suffered with alcohol abuse. There were certainly others I may have known but not intimately enough to observe the extent of suffering. John, although only currently using moderately had a history of treatments , hospitalizations and legal problems. He now seemed clear of all that. All of us went out occasionally to find music and dance. This often led us to bars. John would imbibe, but seemed able to hold it. Whatever demons had haunted him in the past seemed under control.
The night of the concert arrived and we were going to a big dance. We all sat together for the first half. I was finally getting to enjoy Rolling Thunder. At intermission, John left us to wander about. For the remainder of the concert he was absent. We were concerned, but figured he was a big boy and could take care of himself. After the concert let out, we still had no John. We returned to our car and waited his arrival. Shortly an plain clothes policeman approached and asked if John was with us. Apparently he had come out to the car during the concert, He raised suspicion of the security guards who checked him out. When it was found that he had outstanding warrants, he was taken to lockup.
We returned home perplexed and alarmed by this turn of events. Stacy posted bail and John returned to our fold. He seemed in good spirits and downplayed the significance of his legal problems. We were still basking in the high created by seeing Bob Dylan and company. What was not too obvious was John was beginning to slightly increase his alcohol consumption. We did not catch on that his attitude was ever so slightly eroding. It was a shock to us all that whatever was eating him up was hidden. On evening John swam out into the Gulf of Mexico and did not return . His body was recovered miles away a few days later. Not understand what had happened to him, Tallulah, Stacy and I swore off alcohol. We did not understand but felt it prudent to not chase the demons that were after John.

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A lean year for trees. 1991: Martha's Vineyard, MA

Besides the devastation wrought by the high winds of Hurricane Bob, trees suffered another kind of onslaught. In atypical fashion this storm carried very little rain. Instead high winds stirred up the seas and carried sea foam quite a ways inland. It seemed most of the island was covered with this sticky salty brine. As in the days of Carthage, vegetation did not fare well. By the end of August most leaves browned up and fell off trees. It appeared much like late fall, but in fact we still had three full weeks of summer. Deciduous trees were fooled and prepared to do what they do in summer, they budded again.
Of course the annual plants that suffered this fate could not revive and died off. The Cape and Islands sported an odd looking landscape. Trees and bushes appeared as they do in early spring; annual growth looked as it does just before winter. By November when fall was ushered in by another large storm, the short spring was ended and trees entered their winter mode. Leaves again turned to autumn colors and blew off the trees. This was not the end of their odd year.
There was an unusual mild spell in February. Deciduous trees and bushes were tricked again and began putting on buds. Just as the buds were formed and beginning to flower, winter returned. The colorful look of spring froze off and trees returned to their winter appearance. Spring returned late. It was middle May before vegetation began its flowery show, Flower bulbs were well into their presentation, but deciduous tress and bushes were holding back. They had already expended their flowering juices three times the past year. They probably had little left to do it again. When I walked among them in June, they looked like they were saying, “No we’re not getting fooled again. We may put on a bud or two but that’s it.” And that is just what they did; put on a bud or two and gave up. That summer looked pretty bleak for trees that had an incredibly tough year blow by.

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The storm is over. August, 1991: Martha's Vineyard, MA

In the light of day, the extent of tree damage wrought by Hurricane Bob became apparent. I drove around and witnessed stands of trees that were felled. In some spots there were patches of at least an acre where no tree was left unscathed. I felt a tinge of sadness that so many were damaged. At the same time I felt gratitude for the windfall. I heated with firewood and it seemed an abundance was available for the taking. Having a few days before I had to get back to Atlanta, I fetched my chainsaw hoping to get to work gathering. A snag developed when I realized my chainsaw needed tuning up. In a rush to get it running, I managed to destroy the carburetor. I threw the worthless piece of junk into the back of my pickup and angrily headed into Edgartown.
There, I ran into a group of folks and shared my predicament. I left the chainsaw in the back of my truck and expressed the hope someone would snatch it. The idea that a thief could steal my problem brought me some sense of light. Preston asked if I would like a job clearing fallen tress from his property. He stated that he went out that morning and bought a new chainsaw, but upon starting it realized he was in fear of using it. He offered to give me his new saw and pay an hourly wage if I would cut up and remove his debris . He then asked, “Do you have any one who can help you with the hauling.” Standing behind him, I noticed my friend Lenny.
Lenny sported the telltale handkerchief around his neck hiding the hole left from surgery to remove his larynx. Apparently while I was away he received treatment for his cancer. I asked, “Do you feel up to helping me load and haul branches.” He beamed and nodded in the affirmative. We had a deal. I got a new saw and we both could earn some cash. To top it off, I would now be able to gather loads of firewood. We got in my pickup and headed off to another adventure. For the time, we got used to Lenny using a device that supplied vibration to his voice box so he could speak. His messages got garbled. It seemed he was trying to annunciate whole sentences instead of single words at a time. At one point he kept reiterating a sentence that sounded like, “There are elephants in the subway.” I would look at him and repeat what I just thought I heard. Lenny would shake his head and say again the same phrase. I could not get him to slow down and give it to me a word at a time. It seemed we battled back and forth while we filled the pickup with our first load of branches.
With our truck full, we headed off to a field where there was a gathering of branches that would eventually be chipped. On the way we stopped for coffee. Lenny somehow imparted that was the phrase he was trying to get across to me. There were no elephants in the subway, he only wanted a break. It took us all day to clear out Preston’s fallen pines. We finished up thankful to have a new saw and some cash. Preston also offered us more work on another property he had. Lenny was exhausted and left me to work by myself. That was OK and I spent the next few days cutting and gathering wood. All told, by the time I headed back to Atlanta, I put up over eight cords of firewood and a shed full of exotic species to be milled later for woodworking. I left Lenny behind. He was scheduled to begin radiological treatment for his cancer. He seemed hopeful and positive his prognosis was good. In the meantime, I heard from Joe., He was not doing well. It seemed his trip to Denver exhausted him and took him away from his treatments that likely were necessary to keep him healthy. I wrapped up my wood gathering exploits and headed to Atlanta.

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Lights out. August 19,1991: Martha's Vineyard, MA

We got Natalie safely to Montreal and set up in a new apartment. The night before we left, we went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant. It was partly in celebration of Amelia’s coming birthday. She hoped to be back home on Martha’s Vineyard to celebrate with her friends. So as a present we bought her ice cream with peas in it. Strange to say the least, she enjoyed it. We stayed up late fêting Amelia’s turning eight. Next morning we woke late, had breakfast and got on the road.
Our route took us over to Vermont and traversed that state from the northwest to southeast corners. The weather was clear, calm, and cool, enjoyable for a drive. Amelia was in charge of the music selection and kept us in tunes from my cassette collection. We breezed down the state listening to the likes of Bob Marley, Queen, Dire Straights and REM. There was no indication of what was twirling up the east coast headed for Nova Scotia. From all appearances we were headed toward a peaceful end of summer. It was dark by the time we reached Springfield, Massachusetts. It was really dark. There was not light to be seen. It had all the appearance of a blackout.
Trying to find out what happened, we switched from cassette tunes to radio and found a station broadcasting news. The hot topic concerned the surrounding of the Russian Parliament by crack paratroop forces of Soviet Army. Apparently Russia was in turmoil. News was sketchy but spoke that Russian hardliners, upset by President Gorbachev’s moderate policies were taking over. Indications were that days of openness were finished and now headed back toward confrontational politics. That news along with a blackout brought up memories of cold war policies along with visions of nuclear holocaust. It seemed like we fell through a hole and landed right back in the 1950’s. Of course Amelia was too young to have the same concerns as I. She kept a cool head while we pressed on toward home. I hoped to get to Martha’s Vineyard before the bombs started falling. We switched off the news and went back to Amelia’s music selection.
As we approached Cape Cod, it appeared we had already been devastated by an attack of sorts. Trees were down, buildings were blown apart, and power was still off. Stopping to find out what was responsible for all this carnage, we learned that the Cape and Islands had been visited by Hurricane Bob. It was a powerful fast moving storm that around the same time we left Montreal scooted over the Cape headed in a Northeast direction. Calm quickly returned but destruction wrought was extensive. Most mutilation occurred to trees. Even without power we were able to catch a ferry back to the island and spent a dark, quiet night in safety in our house which escaped any harm.

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Lost in the city. August 1991: Toronto, ON

For a break, Amelia and I traveled to Toronto to pick up Natalie who was just moving to Montreal. She was going to attend university there and needed help moving her belongings. My pickup would be useful and the trip a diversion. This was Amelia’s first trip out of the States and she was excited. Growing up on Martha’s Vineyard meant she was not used to many things common in big cities. She had taken trips to New York an Boston, but never overnight. We would be staying a few days in Toronto and Montreal as we helped Natalie move. Natalie also needed a new bed so we shopped for a futon. For moving convenience and economy we decided upon getting lumber for the frame and buying the mattress in Montreal.
After getting lumber, we needed some screws, sandpaper and wood finish. We stopped at a large hardware store adjacent to a mall that had just opened as we arrived. The items we needed were on the second floor. Amelia asked could she stay on the first floor in the toy section while Natalie and I browsed upstairs. Thinking we would be quick, I allowed her to stay downstairs provided she did not leave the store. She agreed. It did not take too long to make our purchases. But in that time Amelia disappeared. A quick look around the store brought no results .A clerk stated he thought he saw her leave through the door that led into the mall. We exited that way and began our search for a missing child.
Even though the mall had just opened and was fairly empty, did not help. Amelia was nowhere to be seen. We were joined n our search by two security guards. One escorted Natalie around the premises searching while I joined the other in a room full of television monitors that scanned the mall and its parking garages. I kept my eyes on the screens while the guard made announcements over the PA system asking Amelia to use one of the red security phones located throughout the mall to call her dad who was missing her. For what seemed too long a time, I stood watching Natalie accompanied by a guard searching fruitlessly for Amelia. It did not help that a recent newspaper story detailed the abduction of a young boy and subsequent finding of his body in Lake Ontario.
Finally, I asked the security guard who persisted making announcements, whether or not his announcements were broadcast into individual stores or just common mall space. He indicated he was only heard in the corridors. Having an idea I went in search of Amelia in the individual stores. At the far end of the mall was a large department store that was sure to have a large toy section. Entering , I found directions and made it to a large display of stuffed animals. There in front was Amelia with her head tilted back taking in the sight of a display that reached to the ceiling. I sidled up to her and asked in a low voice, “Little Girl, do you know that you are missing?” She did not know, but was found. Upon questioning, Amelia let on that she thought as long as she had not went outdoors she was staying in the store as she was instructed. Grateful to have her retrieved, I made a better effort to keep an eye on her while we were away. We still had to negotiate another large city, one where most folks did not use English.

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Taking breaks. July 1991: Martha's Vineyard, MA

Through out the spring, whenever I needed respite from caretaking Joe, I would take short excursions. One time, I went to visit friends in Florida. Another time, I visited my sister in New Jersey. By summer Joe was feeling well enough to travel on his own. He arranged an extended trip to Denver. He was enthralled by trains but never took an opportunity to use them for extensive travel. Now he was going to have his chance. He booked round trip travel with as many stopovers as he desired. It seemed we would both get a lengthy summer vacation. While he was away, I planned an extensive visit home to Martha’s Vineyard.
Driving north, I decided to stop late at night in Atlantic City. I hoped to recapture the fortunes I found there on my last visit. Then, I was able to turn an on the house chip into a small pile of money. I was short on funds and could use a little bonus. This time it was different. Before long the casino had possesion of all my funds and I left Atlantic City broke. I was able to find a gas station that would accept a check, but would not provide cash. My next challenge was find a route to Martha’s Vineyard where I would not face tolls. I managed to creep across New Jersey, New York and Connecticut without using a toll road, bridge or tunnel. I had to skirt the well traveled routes and use many back roads. It was slow but enjoyable travel. When I got to Woods Hole, I was able to use another check to book travel to the Vineyard.
While home, I hoped to find a little work to finance my respite. No sooner had I gotten home than I ran into my old friend, Lenny. He looked gaunt, pale, and haggard. He confided that he had returned to the Vineyard to die. He had romantic notions of going off into the woods, staying by himself, and passing on naturally. He was not certain of the nature of his affliction, but was sure this would be his final visit. With the help of our mutual friend Leslie, we convinced Lenny to use his veteran benefits and find out what was ailing him. He succumbed to our intervention and went to VA hospital in Jamaica Plain. They found throat cancer and it was operable. Lenny agreed to have surgery and make a bid for recovery. I needed some time to digest the fact that two very near and dear people were experiencing major medical crises. I escaped with my daughter, Amelia. We planned a trip to Montreal to visit her sister and my other daughter Natalie. It felt like a good time to seek brief shelter from the storm.

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Writing the stories. July 2008: Ithaca, NY

There is certain benefit to recording a story long after it unfolded. There is a distance from the emotional impact and advantage of long range perspective. Living in the moment with a story gives sometimes choppy feelings chance to buffet us, while trying to recite events. It seems difficult to transcribe emotions in the moment. According to science a separate part of the brain is used for writing than processing feelings. That gives rise to other art forms to express emotional impact--poetry, visual arts, dance and movement, and song. But once seperated from impact writing can be useful. In fact it can give different meaning to emotions by adding intellectual content.
Other times while transcribing, emotions get triggered. When this happens the writing process seems to get disabled in order to process the emotional entanglement left over. On these occasions, I use a couple techniques to go forward with my writing. Sometimes I go sideways and bring up other tales. This way I divorce myself from the emotional impact, but keep a story going. Often I find, where I leaped has a hidden connection to the part I was having difficulty transcribing. This aids both processing emotional content and weaving necessary components into the story. Another technique is to describe the process. This leads to a discussion of the writing process in the moment of its breakdown. Here a bridge is constructed from the part of the brain that conducts writing to the part that holds emotions. Making this connection seems to aid in dealing with disabling emotions and connecting them with the story.
An example of this process unfolded the last few days. I was writing about a time that was emotionally exhausting for me. As I wrote feelings from that period arose and making it difficult to deal with grammar and language. After a brief struggle, I moved sideways and related a tale from another place and time. After exposing that tale, I came back to the previous one with some new information. That brought another prospective and elements to bear. By using today’s writing to reflect upon this gives me insight into how to weave these other elements into the story. The moment seems to carry healing in that other ways of experiencing emotional impact spring forward. Tomorrow’s writing will likely bring yesterday’s story down a new path.

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