Sunday morning, March 22, 2020, 9:50 AM. Typically, at this hour, I would be balancing a travel cup of Irish Breakfast tea while stowing my acoustic-guitar gig bag into the hatch of my Prius. Today, however, I won’t be taking that seven-minute scoot to Nye Beach for the purpose of fulfilling my weekly duties as Music Director for the Central Oregon Coast Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. In fact, at this odd, perplexing moment, pretty much all purpose has become unclear. And I have no clue how long I’ll be living devoid of fellowship. To be honest, I could really use a hug right about now.
Certainly, by comparison to so many, my problems are small. They are also problems of privilege. Prolonged isolation may be unpleasant. But my living situation is actually ideal for riding this thing out… it’s just me and Millie, my aging beagle, ensconced in a small motor home at a bay-front RV park. Social Security and a modest royalty stream finances a no-frills lifestyle. Our overhead is minimal. We don’t want for essentials.
Still, like every other human on Earth, I need to feel like I matter, to be assured that I’m contributing something to make the world a better place. And, like every other human on Earth, I long for connection. So, day after day, I resort to my default mode… I write; and I write; and I write some more. Blogs. Part Two of a serialized novella. Songs I wonder who will ever hear.
In early 2012, I placed a For Sale sign in the front yard of my vintage Nashville house. After 16 years of working on Music Row, as a songwriter, musician, music producer and publisher, I was preparing to do something I’d always imagined… return to my home state of Oregon. I’d enjoyed a nice run in Nashville, and a not-too-shabby 19 years in L.A. prior to that. But divorce forced the sale of the house, the youngest kid was off to college, and I’d lost my zest for the music biz. I was focusing my creative energies beyond the confines of the three-minute song — writing books, my long-running magazine column, and spec screenplays.
My parents on the Oregon Coast were 85 and 86. They needed help. I’m the eldest sibling and, at the time, the only one without a spouse and kids at home. So, I volunteered.
Countless people told me, “You’ll never regret it.” And, they were right. Looking after Mom and Dad was a richly rewarding experience. However, I hadn’t exactly planned on seven years of cooking, shopping, fetching prescriptions, advocating at doctors’ offices and hospitals all over the state, seeing my father through four major surgeries, my mother through a stroke and the onset of dementia. As their capacities diminished, their dependency increased. Ultimately, it became clear that they needed round-the-clock professional supervision. As proof, three of the five days leading up to my parents’ move to assisted living were spent at the hospital — two trips with Dad and one emergency room visit via ambulance with Mom.
Thus far, my folks have been genuinely happy at Sea Aire. And knowing they are being well taken care of lifts an enormous burden off my shoulders. Of course, I miss our nightly suppers together, the teasing, and the laughter. But, hey… they’re dining and joshing with Gladys and JC and Ethel now — with the exception one evening per week, when I’d motor down the coast with Millie, liberate Mom and Dad from their tiny, one-bedroom apartment, and take them out for chow at a local eatery.
It’s always an adventure getting two 90-somethings into and out of a car and settled in a restaurant. Helping my mother decide on what to order is another challenge. And, regardless of what she finally chooses, she somehow manages to find it lacking in flavor. Still, these regular meals out and/or the occasional Ducks or Blazers game on the tube were keeping us connected. And, for my folks, a visit from their grand beagle added frosting to the cake.
My heart always skips a beat to see the name “Robin” popping up on Caller ID. After all, when the administrator of your parents’ assisted living facility rings you, your kneejerk is to brace for bad news — quite possibly the worst news of all. And, while the news on the afternoon of March 16 was bad, I was actually relieved to hear it. Mom and Dad were fine — at least as fine as an extremely frail 93-year-old man and a half-blind woman of 92 with Alzheimer’s can be. My relief came from knowing they’d be surrounded with an extra buffer of protection from what, for my folks, Gladys, and JC, and Ethel, could very easily be a fatal contagion. Sea Aire, Robin informed me, was now on lockdown. The residents would be confined indoors and absolutely no outside visitors would be allowed until further notice.
Over the days that followed, that initial sense of relief dissipated, as projections about the severity and extent of the crisis became more dire. It began dawning on me that, should the pandemic go on for as long as experts are now predicting, there is a very real possibility that I might never see one or both of my parents alive again.
Yesterday, Dad texted me: “Your mom doesn’t understand what’s going on and gets upset.” If my father should go first, there is absolutely no way my mother, with her failing mental faculties, could live on her own. And I’m wondering how many beats my heart will skip, should the name “Robin” appear on my Caller ID anytime between now and whenever this insanity comes to an end.
Rand Bishop (Gimpy Ol’ Norman) is the author of the memoir, TREK: My Peace Pilgrimage in Search of a Kinder America. Part One of Bishop’s new serialized satirical e-book novella Option (D): Dosing Donald is now available in Kindle edition.
