Notes from Maine - 2021/12/26

Hope the year is ending well for you. Happy Holidays? Merry Christmas? I don’t know precisely what to say without feeling like I’m excluding people I don’t mean to exclude. My family celebrates Christmas, but not in a meaningful way. We use the opportunity to exchange gifts and get together (geography permitting). Yesterday, I had no plans to see anyone except for the people I live with. If you’ve heard me mention in the past that I live alone, it’s because of my loose definition of “people.” I live with Finn (dog), Albert (dog), Maybelle (horse), Earl (horse), and the daughter of Maybelle and Earl. 

Those are the people I planned to spend Christmas with. 

My brother was able to change those plans with a quick phone call. Dad isn’t feeling well and kept asking when I was coming up to see him. It was snowing and the roads were gross, but half of us (me, Finn, and Albert) loaded up the SUV and headed north.

The traveling was no fun, but the visit was okay. My brother and his family were at Dad’s. There was a dire note left by one of Dad’s caregivers on the counter. He had a bad morning yesterday—no energy, pain in his neck, and the consistent complaint that he wanted to die. He has been saying that for a couple of days now. It doesn’t seem to be connected to anything specific. 

A few months ago, I took Dad to a doctor’s appointment. We saw a person on a recumbent bike. I said, “Is that Gary?” 

His oldest friends are (were) Gary and Nick. They are (were) brothers who live (lived) in Florida, but Dad met them in Greenland when he babysat them. 

When he met the brothers, Dad was 11 and wanted to earn money on the base. There wasn’t anything to do on an arctic air base except ride bikes into the wind, apparently. I think he was so fed up by the terrible, junked bikes they had on the base that he decided to earn enough to buy his own decent bicycle when he got home. He wandered around, asking people for jobs, and met Louise Carpenter, who had two young boys. Gary was still in diapers when Dad started sitting for them.

Dad earned the money he needed and learned a disappointing lesson when they got back to the states, but that’s a different story.

His relationship with Nick and Gary continued throughout their lives.

Back in Virginia, the Carpenters lived near his parents. When Dad came home from college for the summer, he spent more time with Nick and Gary. Then, the Carpenters moved to Florida and Dad’s parents moved to Maine, but that wasn’t the last he saw of the brothers.

They rekindled their friendship through the years. At one point, the Carpenters built a kit car in my father’s garage. He would hide the key, but they would always find it, or figure a way to break in. The woman who lived with Dad would stay up all night drinking with the brothers and Dad would later discover all his gin had disappeared.

Ten years ago, the three of them had a daily conference call. They would tell stories about their projects and woes. Whenever Dad would wind up in the hospital, Gary would call me to find out the story. 

Anyway, a few months ago I was taking Dad to the doctor and saw a recumbent cyclist. 

“Is that Gary?”

“He died,” Dad said.

“No. When?”

“A couple of days ago.”

As soon as we got to the doctor, I texted my brother who replied, “No. Not that I know of. Doesn’t seem likely.”

Then, by the time we were leaving the doctor, my brother had investigated and told me that Nick went to Gary’s apartment when he wasn’t answering any calls. Dad was right. Gary was dead. My father has never shown any emotion that I’m aware of, aside from anger. That day was no different. I stopped at the Walgreens and bought a sympathy card to send to Nick. Dad asked why—Nick already knew his brother was dead. This is my father’s sense of humor. It’s dark and unsentimental. 

My father’s oldest and arguably closest friend passed away and I found out only because I made a comment about a person on a bicycle.

My brother thinks that maybe the absence of Gary is the underlying cause of Dad’s depression. Gary doesn’t call anymore. He was the one who connected the three together. Dad doesn’t want to call Nick because he doesn’t want to bother him. Nick finds solo conversations with Dad difficult. They are difficult. Dad becomes fixated on one thing and talks about it repeatedly. I’m sure everyone has encountered a person in this phase of their life. 

Yesterday was fine. My brother and I both persuaded Dad to take ibuprofen for his neck pain and it went away. I’ll call more. Sometimes my father comments that he’s the oldest person he knows. It sound ridiculous to me—Dad is only 85—but he really doesn’t interact with anyone older than himself. Unfortunately, aside from family, Dad doesn’t really interact with anyone at all. 

Today, I’m safe at home with the five people I live with. Finn and Albert are inside with me. Maybelle and her daughter are outside in the fresh snow. Earl is stuck in the barn until Maybelle and Earl learn to keep their hands to themselves. Just kidding about that—I’m only keeping them separated for now so we don’t have another winter baby. I think it would be best to let Maybelle enjoy time with her baby and then wean her before we think about another potential foal. 

Later, when Maybelle and baby have had their exercise, they’ll go back in the barn and Earl will go out. It’s nice having young, promising life around. Albert turns one tomorrow. The little filly is growing so fast that I think she’ll be taller than her mom before spring. 

Hope the year is ending well for you. Happy New Year.