Mike had been seeing Dr. Bertoli on a weekly basis for a year or more. He seemed to connect with her, though, except for the time immediately following a session, there didn’t appear to be any change in Mike’s up and down levels of depression. On the few occasions that I’d joined Mike with Dr. Bertoli, I saw that he paid closer attention to what I was saying when we were in that office than he did anywhere else. I set up a time to see Dr. Bertoli with Mike. Maybe she could help me convince him that we needed to take drastic measures to get our finances in order.
Looking back from my present vantage point, spending $500 a month for Mike to see a cognitive therapist was ludicrous. A cognitive therapist? Talk about money down the drain. At the time, though, it presented hope for a possible fix for whatever was wrong, and I was desperate for a fix.
It was around the middle of February when we sat together in Dr. B’s office, and I gave a shortened version of why we needed to sell the house. She listened carefully to my assessment of our finances, listened carefully to Mike’s determination to live out the rest of his life in our present house. She asked the right questions. Mike was focused and apparently open to making substantial changes.
Dr. Bertoli reminded Mike that he loved a new project. Would at least part of making a move be challenging and exciting? He allowed as how it would. By the time we left Mike agreed to pursue other possibilities. But when, a few days later, I suggested we look at some smaller places he was back to, “I’m going to die in this house.”
May 2016
Dear Mike,
It’s 8:15, turning from dusk to dark. I’m sitting in my little patio, having finished a glass of wine and the handful or more of cashews I’d put into a small ceramic bowl, part of a set you’d brought back from Japan. Were there once four of these? I’m not sure. However many you brought home, two now sit in the cupboard you’ve never seen, in the duplex you’ve never seen. You often came home from your travels with things that were too ornate for my tastes. But I’ve always loved these small ceramic bowls. Just the right size for melted butter on artichoke night, or for sour cream on baked potato night. They’re grey, with random flecks of brown, and two muted circles of red near the lip of the bowl—again of a seeming random design. It’s all random, isn’t it? But I’m determined not to babble on about randomness, at least not right now.
What I wanted to tell you about is this very sweet evening, in this very pleasant place, this place you’ve never been. I’m sitting on one of the set of four outdoor chairs that sat around the table on the deck in Altadena, and around the table on the front patio in Gold River, and around Joe and Kathy’s table in Rescue during that time when I had no place for a table around which to place them. How sturdy they’ve been—still are! I appreciate sturdiness, showing up for work every day, uncomplainingly getting the job done. I don’t remember where they came from—maybe that huge Japanese nursery in San Gabriel that also had patio furniture and garden decor? Or maybe it was Monrovia. The place of purchase is lost to me now. I’m sure we chose the chairs together, though. With very few exceptions, we always chose furniture together, even though the choosing was complicated by our divergent tastes.
Securely attached to cross supports of the fence that separates my place from the neighbor’s to the north is that large, bas-relief plaque depicting two angels. I think it’s an image from a Raphael painting, though I’m not sure. Sharon gave this to us one anniversary, maybe our 35th. For several years it hung on a wall in our back patio at Promontory Point. Because it was a sort of terra-cotta color, it was somewhat lost against the sort of beige color of the wall. Then we had Sol, our favorite, perfectionist painter, paint a large, deep-purple circle on the wall as background for the angels. Glancing at the plaque now, which is not framed by a purple circle but by a grape stake fence, I’m guessing the dimensions are about 2½ feet wide and 1½ feet high. So many things fell by the wayside during the extreme downsizing from Promontory Point, but I’m glad the angels are still with me.
There is the “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” sign, a quotation from one of your favorite Yip Harburg shows, and the rough, grey, ceramic, wrinkled faces from The Gifted Gardener, another anniversary gift from us, to us. We liked the crusty old couple, he winking at her in what we interpreted as a playful, slightly lecherous manner. The bird feeder stand, the wicker chairs, the gardenia, the rose bush in the giant blue-glazed ceramic pot, all are from our old lives together.
Although I know all of the warnings about drinking alone, and am aware of my genetic disposition toward alcohol addiction, in the evenings I continue to have a glass of wine, or two, as we used to do together. When I sit on this patio, with wine and cheese, or nuts, the surroundings and fare are reminiscent of times with you. But I am not maudlin. My thoughts as I sip and munch are of the day that has just passed, and the day that is to come. Maybe I think about my next task with a writing group I’m leading. Or the chapter I’m currently working on for this potential book. The kids, other family, friends, things as mundane as the need, soon, to give the bathroom a good scrub, or to pay bills … such are the thoughts that accompany my now solo version of cocktail hour. But as based in the present as such times are, they exist in the midst of representations of past times with you. As with the Raphael plaque or the wrinkled, winking faces, if I choose to bring these representations out of the background and into the foreground, the clarity of what we once had, and what we lost, emerges. That’s a choice that I make sparingly.
But thank you again for so many of those times.
Marilyn
I THOUGHT THEY LIKED ME
2009
In March, the minister of Northminster called to ask that Mike and I meet with him and Susan, the campus RN, to talk about choir-related issues. We did. They opened with a heartfelt prayer, an unintentional reminder to me that I was in foreign territory. But foreign territory or not, I knew they were sincere.
The minister and nurse both reassured Mike that they loved him and that they wanted to help make things work however they could. But too many issues had arisen that were getting in the way of the previously smoothly functioning choir.
The minister said that several choir members had come to him expressing their concerns about Mike. At times he seemed to lack focus. They also complained that he would repeatedly rehearse a number scheduled for months away and neglect pieces for the coming Sunday. Scheduling was a mess. He wasn’t communicating with the Hand Bell director, which made her job more difficult. Was Mike aware of any of these difficulties?
Mike said he wasn’t aware of any of that. He looked truly puzzled. Then he launched into a lengthy and detailed story of his baptism at the age of 11, the immersion, and the expectation that his life would change dramatically. He also talked about being raised Southern Baptist, no cards, no alcohol, etc., etc., etc. The minister tried to get back to the topic at hand. The nurse gave a few examples of times when things had gone awry. Did he remember when they had to rearrange his music for him? No, he didn’t, and then it was back to his baptism.
The meeting lasted over an hour and when we got into our car to go home, Mike said, “I have no idea what that was about!”
I repeated a few of the concerns they had expressed in the meeting. Mike again said, “I have no idea what that was about.”
At the time, I thought Mike was simply refusing to be interested in any point of view other than his own. Another example of his growing self-absorption. What I suspect now is that he truly didn’t have any idea what the meeting was about. He’d lost the capacity to understand any of the issues they’d raised.
The Chanteuses singers were also struggling to come to grips with how to deal with Mike’s lessened musical competence. As with the church choir, I now often received emails confirming certain dates and times. At first this date-checking was occasional, then gradually they relied more and more on my back up for times, dates, and, ultimately, trying to keep Mike’s music organized in his folder. I’d also begu
n meeting with one or two of the Chanteuses’ leaders for coffee and, as with family, our talk centered on Mike’s atypical behavior.
The preparation for their spring concert sounded as if it were grueling. One of the things the group had appreciated in Mike was that he challenged them to take on more complicated music and arrangements than they had done with previous directors. During one of our coffee conversations the two leaders agreed that Mike had taken them to a whole new level. But now he was having trouble with the rhythm of a particular piece. Someone had to keep track of his music for him, making sure it was organized in his folder. With the concert less than two weeks away, they’d given up hope that he’d get the rhythms right on that one piece. They decided to have him sit that number out. I don’t remember what excuse they gave him, or who, if anyone, would be directing, but they felt they had no other choice.
This would be Mike’s last concert with Chanteuses. The decision to let him go had been agonizing, and they had probably waited longer than they should have, but they loved Mike so much … they were so sorry about his lessening abilities … we sat in the bright cafe, the three of us giving way to tears. We puzzled over the possible causes of Mike’s decline. I told them I’d asked for a referral to a neurologist, but the wheels were turning slowly.
On the day of the concert, Mike’s skewed sense of time had him in his tux just a little after 9 in the morning.
“You don’t need to be at the church until 5:30,” I told him. “It’s too early to be in your tux.”
“Oh, okay,” he said, going downstairs.
I followed behind, watching him pick up his music folder and car keys.
“It’s not time yet, hon. Why don’t you change clothes, and I’ll take you out to breakfast?”
“I don’t know what’s happening,” he said.
“Well, the concert starts at 7. You’ve asked the singers to meet you at the church at 5:30. That’s eight hours away. We’ve got plenty of time for breakfast out, time to run errands, you know, the usual.”
“I don’t know what’s happening!”
“I just told you!” I said, knowing as soon as my impatient words were out that to tell Mike first we do this, then we do that, was ridiculous because apparently he could no longer understand time sequences. I knew that, but in my impatience I forgot. I gentled my tone.
“Let’s go upstairs. I need to change clothes, too.”
He slammed his music and keys down on the counter and rushed upstairs where he stripped off his jacket and flung it on the bed, same with his pants and shirt.
I got out of my sweats and into something just a slight step up, hoping that Mike, too, would get into something more casual. He did.
“Come on, I’ll take you to breakfast.”
“I don’t know what’s happening!”
“Let’s talk about it at breakfast.”
The three-minute drive to Amore Cafe was tense and silent, but as soon as Mike opened the door to the restaurant he was all smiles. The owner greeted us as always, “How are you, my friends?”
“Great!” Mike said, full of enthusiasm. “How are you this morning?”
“Busy, but that’s good.”
“Good for you,” Mike said, exuding warmth.
Could we just stay there until time for the concert? Keep Mike’s public persona on the job?
I made breakfast last as long as possible, then did the same with errands. I took the long way to the bank, and to the cleaners. I stopped for gas, then ran the car through the car wash. There was a limit, though, to how long I could drag things out. It was just slightly after noon when we got home. Mike went upstairs and put on his tuxedo.
After many false starts—tuxedo on, tuxedo off, “I don’t know what’s happening,” “It’s not time yet,” etc., etc.—I finally gave up sometime around 4:30.
I watched as he picked up music and keys for what seemed the thousandth time.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“I’ll be there before 7. I hope it goes well.”
He turned, gave me a quick kiss, and was out the door.
Twenty or so minutes later he called from his cell phone.
“Well, I’m at the church, but nobody’s here!”
“They’re not due for at least another 15 minutes.”
“Nobody’s here!”
“Can you wait just a little longer?”
“They’re not here!”
“Well … wait for me. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
No matter what meds Mike was on, nothing seemed to alleviate his anxiety. As difficult as that was for me, it must have been infinitely more difficult for him.
Two of the singers were already there when I arrived, and they and Mike had started setting things up. I grabbed the book I was currently reading from the car and found a quiet place to sit in the church patio, but even the beautifully written, highly suspenseful Story of Edgar Sawtelle, could not win the battle for my attention when pitted against my growing fear of impending mishaps. As futile as I knew it was to dwell on worries, my attention was constantly drawn away from Edgar Sawtelle and back to Mike and to the Chanteuses group, and what likely lay ahead.
Over the decades I’d sat among countless audiences and congregations, watching the range of movements Mike used to communicate with singers. Whether a beginning or advanced high school choir, a raggedy or well-polished church choir or a group of professional musicians, Mike’s conducting techniques didn’t vary. His teaching techniques may have varied but not his conducting techniques. From head to toe, his whole body became an expression of the music before him. On the rare occasions when I’d been seated behind a choir and facing Mike, I’d marveled at his capacity to communicate with his singers through both broad and subtle gestures, facial expressions and eye contact.
For the sake of those around me, I’ve never sung in a choir. From the perspective of either a singer or choral conductor, I had little awareness of the finer points of delivering “Home on the Range,” much less the Mozart Requiem. But I did know when I was witnessing a oneness of musical passion and purpose that reached beyond notes on a score or the technical expertise of singers.
From the early adoration of high school choristers to the ongoing respect of experienced singers, Mike was well thought of as a choral conductor. Several professional singers along the way told me of his precision as a director, his ability to deal fully with the depth and complexity of demanding works. Recently a man who had all of his life sung in choirs told me that Mike was the best director he’d ever experienced. “He made us better than we were,” he said.
It’s not likely that singers and fellow musicians would say to me, “Your husband sucks as a conductor,” but the accolades rang true and expressed a reality that I could only intuit.
On that April evening at Trinity Cathedral, instead of finding a seat somewhere in the anonymous middle of the church as was my practice, I took a place in the pew directly behind where Mike sat waiting for the singers to enter. Why? Did I think I could suddenly jump up and right things in the likely event that something went wrong?
Usually the women of Chanteuses made their entrance projecting warmth, good cheer, and confidence. This evening their smiles seemed forced. There was a worried tension in the air. Maybe I only noticed this because I was so aware of troubles behind the scenes, but to me the tension was palpable. The singers were nervous. I was nervous. Mike, on the other hand, appeared to be more relaxed than he had been all day.
The opening number sounded a bit rocky, though again my expectations may have skewed my perceptions. Mike seemed unsure of the next number, shuffling through his music folder. One of the women in the front row stepped forward to find the piece for him. She made light of it and they went on. The next number Mike directed with the wrong piece of music in front of him, then sat down in the front pew.
“Not yet,” one of the singers said, motioning him back. “You don’t get to sit d
own until ‘African Celebration.’ After intermission.”
“Oh. So am I directing this one?” Mike asked, standing to take his place. Again someone checked his music, found the next number and placed it in front of him. All of this was done with an appearance of lightheartedness, but I suspected I was not the only one there with butterflies in my stomach and sweaty palms. Several more times during this first half of the concert Mike sat down too soon, and the whole routine was repeated.
To my untrained ear there were very few places where things were obviously off. On one number Mike brought the singers in too soon, before the piano introduction was complete, and at other places I saw that the group was in charge, working around the uncertainty of Mike’s leadership.
It was not until “Had I the Heaven’s Embroidered Cloth,” a Yeats poem set to music, that Mike truly rose to the occasion. I was again captivated by the fluidity of his body, the elegance of his gestures. And I knew for certain that this was the very last time I would ever see Mike conducting singers with such grace and precision, the nuances of his movements expressing the nuances of the music at hand. My throat tightened and I fought back tears, trying to hang onto the familiar scene that was, right then, passing from my life for all time.
Seconds after the last note of the Yeats piece, there was that faintly audible release of breath that comes with an audience’s awareness that they have experienced the full power and mystery, the ultimate beauty of a unique composition, flawlessly performed.
Mike sat down.
Too soon.
After the April concert, the same two group members that I’d been meeting with met Mike for lunch. In a later conversation, they told me about their time with him. They’d spoken of their appreciation for all that he had done for them. They remembered good times. Then, in the gentlest way possible, they mentioned Mike’s recent and puzzling difficulties keeping track of music, or dealing with complicated rhythms, or leading an organized rehearsal. They said they were shifting things around. In the fall they would be using another conductor.
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