My Susan

Susan was a rare and beautiful woman. I met her around 35 years ago when I first arrived in the village. From the moment we met and she handed me a key to her house, she overwhelmed me with her trust and kindness. Soon after, she left, on my doorstep, a book and note describing a recent dream that troubled her. "Do you read?" she wrote. "I need help." 

Once when she came to visit, she found me weeping. Without questioning my tears, she took my arm and led me to her garden where she fed me figs and told me stories about her life. She was forthright and open - no dramatization, just simple facts. Noting my discomfort, she told me that she did not believe in euphemisms.

Over that first year, she took me and my children on picnics beside riverbanks and amid fields of poppies, She led us to art exhibits in nearby towns, and on nature walks through forests in search of wild orchids. On one such walk, my 4 year old daughter proclaimed, "Oh you are so clever, Susan". Watching their relationship blossom, I thanked the heavens that Gill had someone who could teach her what I could not. 

During this time, Susan was painting delicate exacting pictures of wild flowers and had begun her autobiography. I shared her love of writing and would bring my meagre offerings to her. She would applaud or criticize. I grew to trust her completely. She was the smartest woman I've ever met: I thought her an encyclopaedia of English literature. 

She was also a gourmand who loved to cook. Her onion tart is still a celebratory dish in my home. She told me once that the two best things in life are food and sex, and people didn't enjoy them enough or talk about them enough.

How could I not love her?

During our years together, she wrote and rewrote and rewrote longhand her three volume autobiography that her beloved David typed and published for her. 

As she grew old and fragile, she did so with such grace, never losing her passion for birds and wildflowers, oysters and champagne, poetry and books, and her family and friends. To my mind, she was especially  enchanted by her grandchildren.

Recently, Susan told me that some people treat her as ancient - a body without a mind, without desires and dreams. "Do you ever dream of sex?" she continued."Do you?" I asked. She smiled, her beautiful mischievous child-like smile and said, "yes!"

I feel privileged to have had Susan as a friend. I shall love her forever more.

My Christmas Card

 

It's been Six Months

 Time does not bring relief; you all have lied   

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!   

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;   

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,   

And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;   

But last year’s bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.   

There are a hundred places where I fear   

To go,—so with his memory they brim.   

And entering with relief some quiet place   

Where never fell his foot or shone his face   

I say, “There is no memory of him here!”   

And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Grief"

"Grief’s a bastard. 

Turns up no notice on the doorstep whenever 

moves in doesn’t shower doesn’t shave 

won’t do dishes 

dirty laundry 

eats badly spends hours in the bathroom 

keeps you awake half the night 

shows no consideration 

puts a filter on all the views 

no matter how sunny it gets 

the place still looks like shit. 

Grief’s a bastard. 

Talks long distance drinks too much overmedicates can’t finish a book 

keeps flipping channels mutes the sound 

turns down the colour 

’til it’s all washed out 

faded away. 

Grief will travel anywhere in the world to be with you 

nothing too extravagant for Grief 

can take the whole sky 

paint it bloodred demolish cities 

call down storms 

turn forests to sawdust 

punch holes in mountain ranges 

bedroom doors. 

Speaks for you 

whether you like it or not 

even though there’s nothing left to say 

and no words left to say it with 

roars furious flails around 

when you ask him how things are the fucker tells you 

trails along behind on walks 

dead-eyed pathetic shuffles 

’til you wait up and turn 

taking a deep breath 

knowing what’s coming. 

Gets old acts distant suddenly doesn’t call for weeks 

then comes over with too much whiskey and a bag of crappy 

skunkweed just to keep you on your toes. 

Jumps you in an alley after a movie 

and while he’s beating you says 

we must keep working on this relationship."

by Geoff Inverarity 

"Death, be not proud"

 A few nights ago I had a dream. Rob wanted to watch a film and I was running around the house like a madwoman. The toilet was leaking. There were all kinds of things falling apart. Why wasn’t he helping me? I woke suddenly and saw the bathroom light was on and the door was slightly ajar and my first thought was that Rob was in the bathroom and I called out to him and then realized it couldn’t be Rob. What do I do with all the questions I want to ask him? 

I am obsessed with death but I am not frozen. I did go to Paris - the second show. I saw a couple of my favourite designers and I was able to focus and send good notes and pictures to the store. I made a quick trip to Vancouver and saw the lawyer working on Rob’s estate and the bank who are dragging their heels and not transferring money from Rob’s retirement fund to me because of my name. I signed Barbara Yvonne Young and they asked me to change it to Barbara Y Young and still they stumbled. Finally a few weeks ago, they asked me to take out the Y… and still they haven't transferred the funds. This is my life right now - erasing Rob’s name from all our joint possessions. How I hate it. 

I didn’t expect to be in such pain over the grouchy old man with whom I’ve lived with since I was 19 years old. I didn’t expect the hell I’d experience in a Casablanca hospital and then in Albi. Brendan flew over and then Michael and finally Gilly so I was never alone. We were with Rob every day, holding his hands, exercising his arms and legs, hoping for a miracle. We didn’t get one. In the end, he died alone at 10:30 at night. I sent a message to the hospital doctor last week, asking how he died. He responded almost immediately: 

"I don't have precise information about his last hours but on the last nurse's visit, he was breathing the same way as in the afternoon (without warning signs). His death was very sudden, maybe by the way of a cardiac trouble or a pulmonary embolism but we can't be sure. The night nurse found him already dead. I'm pretty sure he didn't suffer at least."

Gill and I heard that he had died the next morning. We dressed quickly and went to the hospital. I went in first and touched his cold body - I was shocked at how icy cold it was in the warm room.  I kissed his cheek. I talked a little and said good-bye. My only thought was that Rob wasn’t there. 

On a happier note, I am flying to San Francisco and then catching a shuttle to Carmel on the first of December for a month to be with Gill and family. Brendan with his family will join us on December 22nd. I might go to Mexico in February for a birthday party for the friend whom I’ve known the longest and then I must spend a little time with my family in Ontario. I can only plan one trip at a time as my thoughts are foggy and come out in bursts, staccato, and not always coherently. I am scared, sometimes, that I’ve lost my ability to think clearly, to write, to live my final act with grace. In the lawyer’s office, she asked me what I was going to do now and, from somewhere deep inside me, I said “I want to do something extraordinary”. I have no idea what that is.

Tragic Head

I have washed two jackets of Rob’s and the murdering shoes he wore when he fell. I’m putting them in the charity bin. (I am moving very slowly even though I feel the need to get everything in order.) I have also decided to do the last Paris market at the end of the month but with a much reduced load. I am taking along a younger friend. She will hopefully stop me from doing something stupid. I am doing stupid things all the time and, according to Didion,  that’s normal during this year of magical thinking. Still I don’t like it. 

Oh a happier note, for the past few weeks I’ve been doing Tai Chi on the Esplanade at 7:30 every morning. This is a discipline or rather martial art that I’ve always wanted to learn. Some kindly spirit must have decided that I've suffered enough and so sent an American artist teaching at a school in the village who is also an advanced student of Tai Chi. He kindly allowed me to join a number of his art students. The damn shingles refuse to vacate my head so I am struggling to keep up and balance on one leg but still I persevere. At the very least, it gets me up and dressed in the morning. (The art teacher is taking a week off between classes and so I am trying to memorize the moves with the help of a YouTube video.)

Everyone seems to be dying or complaining about the ailments of old age. How I hate it but am I any better? I went for a picnic and to an art gallery last Sunday with Susan (who just turned 95) and David (13 years younger) and the picnic in the rose garden was pleasant enough but after, wandering through the halls and rooms of the old abby (Beaulieu-en-Rouergue), the only painting I noticed was one nicknamed by the artist’s wife “Tragic Head”, a watercolour executed with long quick brushstrokes with, what appears to me, hollow eye sockets and a dissolving mouth. Death, fucking death, takes whoever it damn well pleases.

Literally Crazy

“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death.... We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe their husband is about to return and need his shoes.” ― Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

I have had a couple of bad days. No, I have had a lot of bad days. I cannot write. I cannot sort myself out. Today, Fauci caught a little bird and put her under the dining room table. At first, I thought the bird was dead and then it flew to the window and Fauci flew after it. I screamed at the damn cat to leave the bird alone. I ran to the window and opened it and the little bird flew away. A sigh of relief. I usually yell for Rob to come to the rescue but he is not at home. If he were, he'd be proud of me. 

"Brief Glimpses of Beauty"

Brendan gave me the article below to read when we were in Casablanca. At first I found it annoying because of the constant repetition and then I fell into it and began to like it as it forced me to slow down and absorb the writer's "masterpiece of nothing". And yet this "nothing" essay allows me to catch "brief glimpses of beauty" in the horrible images that plaque me from the past few months. For instance, I untied Rob's left wrist, tied so tightly it left red welts, and he slowly raised his arm to his forehead, palm upward - a true Rob gesture - his release was a glimpse of beauty. And when I untied his other arm and he raised it and placed his hand over his heart  - another Rob gesture - especially when his fingers started moving to the beat of the music that Brendan or Michael or I played near his ear. - that was another brief but exquisite glimpse of beauty. 

I have been alone in our house for a week. I listen for Rob to awake in the morning. My head pounds. (The shingles are still playing havoc with the nerve endings in my head.) I know he is not coming back but I cannot touch his stuff. His shoes still sit by the door. His clothes sit on shelves and hang in his closet. All his electronic gear rests in his office. His ashes sit on my bookshelf in my office. 

As I was moving ahead... (magazine article by Jonas Mekas)

If this link doesn't work, please copy and paste: http://www.ocec.eu/cinemacomparativecinema/pdf/ccc03/ccc03_documentos_mekas_eng.pdf

Grief

 

I wake up every morning with a headache and I am incapable of doing anything until I take a pain killer. My brother-in-law Bill says that it's the shingles working their way out of my system and not to worry if my head feels as if it is exploding. 

Yesterday, Brendan, Jane and Seb flew home and left me all alone. I wrote the above thank-you and then ate cold sausage and cheese. Food does not inspire me. Nothing inspires me. I keep seeing images of Rob in a hospital bed and try to think what I could have done differently. If I'd known that he would die no matter what I/we did, could I have made his passage less painful? 

At the Love Fest or what I call his wake, I spoke of our meeting and early days and there was much laughter. This surprised me. I didn't think I was funny.

Toronto with Rob

Rob and I met, in 1968, at Ryerson in the Radio and Television Arts program. There were 27 guys in our class. 2 girls.  It was not love at first sight.

Between classes, six or seven of us would hang out in the cafeteria, often joined by Scott MacDonald a journalism student who must have found us RTA students more fun than his fellow journalists.

Rob was just one of the guys - fun to banter with, good for a laugh, and always easy to be around. But I did not recognize him as the one with whom I would share my life.

And then one day, I spied him on the subway. He was half way down the car, standing, shirt sleeves rolled up and one hand gripping an upper bar to steady himself. I found myself staring at his naked forearm, softly furred, and a shiver ran through my body. I was too naive to recognize that shiver for what it was.

Rob, a number of years later, wrote a story about our first days. At first, he called me "a pretty girl without attitude".  When he asked if I wanted to hang out at the cafeteria, I often responded,:"sorry I have to go home and wash my hair" or "I have a dance class to teach". He thought that I was way too speedy for him; and yet, he wrote: "Think I'm falling for her."

When I told him one day that I had to go and practice my typing. He said he would come with me as he had to practice his. I didn't know that he took typing in high school and technical school and worked for six months as a typist.

When finally I agreed to go on a date with him, he wrote:

Honest Ed's. I need a shirt. This is a decent one and it's only 99 cents. Getting ready for the play. Christ, it has no buttons on the cuffs. It's a fucking cuff link shirt. Almost time to leave, I'll just roll up the sleeves. A play and then a meal. More money that I've spent in six weeks! But it's worth it. Can't believe she is going out with me!!!

At the end of the evening, he kissed me and I was hooked. A few months later, Rob wrote: She has sort of moved in with me on Sudan St. A commune that doesn't really work. Do any of them? 

Finally our own place on Earle St. We are reading Leonard Cohen and one thing led to another. Sue has come to pick her up but we're making love. We can't stop. Sue keeps knocking but we don't care.

Maitland Street is more like a home. When I ask her to marry me, she breaks out laughing. But she does say yes. Yeah!!!!!

Rob didn't know that for three days after his proposal, I agonized. Having read Simone de Beauvoirs "Memoire of a Dutiful Daughter, I had sworn that I would never marry. And then something curious happened - something that has only happened a few times in my life - on the third day, I was overcome with such calm, such peace that I knew marrying this man was good. 

We married in my parents' back garden. My mother planned the wedding as neither Rob nor I cared about the ceremony itself. He was still a struggling student at Ryerson so he borrowed a suit and bought an orange shirt. By that time, I had switched to York University into their new theatre and dance program, and my mother insisted on making me a dress - she was afraid that I'd go to the church in my usual attire - leotards and jeans. At my mother's insistence, we had three bridesmaids -  my sister in law, my third sister and a university friend.  Bev, at six years old, was our flower girl. In the evening, Rob and I caught an overnight train to Montreal, a gift from Rob's boss.

Rob was working part-time at Spence Thomas Productions. Patrick, not only gifted him with a solid knowledge of sound, he taught Rob how to handle the most difficult situations with grace. He was a gentleman. Every night when Rob left work, Patick would thank him. Later Rob credited him with his success although he noted that the Welshman was not a good business man: he often forgot to bill his poorer clients. 

When Rob began working as a  location sound mixer for W5, we moved to Garnock Street. Rob was worried that he travelled too much and so we got a dog called Manny to keep me company.

A year or so later we moved to Bonfield Street in the Beaches - our last home in Toronto. The day after our move, Rob took off to Chile for three weeks. We were both lonely.

Financially we were doing well. We bought a new Toyota Corolla but when, we asked a salesman to come to the house to demonstrate a [countertop] dishwasher, we looked at each other appalled. Even though we both hated doing dishes - we had sworn that we would not tie ourselves down with stuff, not become too materialistic.   

The lease was up on our apartment and we were planning to drive across Canada and visit Rob's sister. Three weeks before our holiday to Vancouver, I said "Let's just quit our jobs and move there?" Rob agreed. So we left our well-paid jobs, crammed our Toyota with our personal stuff, a tent and camping gear, and drove across the country. 

… like a bird on the wire

Like a drunk in a midnight choir

[We] have tried in [our] way to be free

Today, my sister Maggie arrives and we will hopefully be able to reach the right person and unravel more of our financial affairs. 

How am I?

 I still feel unreal as if this is a bad dream, a preparation for the future but not now. Thoughts of Rob keep invading my head. Good ones and not so good ones… and I will not deify him. Most of the time but not all the time, he was easy to live with. I’m sure he’d say the same of me. Once upon a time, I asked him why he loved me and he said because you are never boring. I took that as a great compliment. 

Recently, we were on a plane together and we both liked aisle seats so we sat across from each other. I was watching some stupid comedy and laughed outloud and then realized where I was and covered my mouth. Rob looked over at me. Later, he told me that, when I laughed, he was overcome with love for me. He thought that’s my wife. I loved him for telling me. So many memories. We had a good life together on the whole. And now his ashes are in a cylinder and I hate it… fuck, fuck, fuck… There is a line in a poem by Irish writer, Paula Meehan - “I’d like to leave you in love’s blindness… never mentions how I stumble into the day,/ fucked up, penniless, on the verge of whining/ at my lot.” 

I feel fragile. Of course, I do. I am managing to clean up papers, sort through his pills and ointments - he had a remedy for every small and large ailment - and take care of legalities. The car is now just my car. I hate that I am erasing him, tidying up his space… 

I cannot bear the pain...

 

As Rob lay in his hospital bed, he gave many signs that he knew his family were standing guard. He squeezed his sons' hands, he pulled at his daughter's hair, and one morning when he arrived in Albi, free of needles and tubes, he reached his arm up, drew Yvonne's face to his and kissed her on the lips. 

This poem is by the Canadian poet, Alden Nolan, from a small town in New Brunswick, like Rob:

This is What I Wanted to Sign Off With

You know what I’m
like when I`m sick: I’d sooner
curse than cry. And people don’t often
know what they’re saying in the end.
Or I could die in my sleep.

So I’ll say it now. Here it is.
Don’t pay any attention
if I don’t get it right
when it is for real. Blame that
on terror and pain
or the stuff they’re shooting
into my veins. This is what I wanted to
sign off with. Bend
closer, listen, I love you.

Au revoir, my love

Brendan will read this for me at the Crematorium. I want to go but I cannot. The last month and a half have worn me down. I would dissolve and I selfishly do not want to share my grief for this man with whom I've shared around 55 years, a man who drove me round the bend and yet is the love of my life, a sound man. 

https://vimeo.com/836608420/69bdf09120

Yesterday/All my troubles seemed so far away

Yesterday, Brendan, Michael, Gillian and I were told to wait in the family room while two nurses removed Rob's respirator - a clear tube leading to his lungs with some sort of bulbous attachment deep down his throat. We waited and waited and waited some more. Finally the nurse came for us and we followed her into Rob's room. He was in a near sitting position,  mouth open, his chest blessedly moving in and out! "He has to cough now," one nurse said. We all chanted "Cough, Rob. Cough" and showed him how.  Finally, finally, he coughed loud and clear. We applauded! In the evening, we toasted him with champagne. 

The pneumonia and sepsis have delayed Rob's healing. I am scared. He most often has a vacant look on his face. His eyes look through me. One day at a time. 

June 5, 2023

 I am finding it more and more difficult to write about Rob's trauma. At the end of May, he was sitting in a chair - the first time since his accident - and was beginning to communicate his discomfort and desire. I threw a sponge ball at him and he caught it and threw it back to me at least a dozen times with a pure Rob distainful expression. "Why are we playing this childish game?" 

And then, at the beginning of June, the hospital called. They had taken Rob to intensive care as he was having difficulty breathing. He had a pulmonary infection and his blood pressure was low. When I went in the next day, they explained that they had induced a coma and inserted a respirator, a food tube up his nose, and a number of thin clear tubes disappearing under the sheet. The doctor said Rob had pneumonia that led to sepsis. He looked frozen, grey, almost dead. The following day, he had more colour and the doctor said that he was responding well to the antibiotics. They were slowly bringing him out of the coma and reducing the level of the respirator to make sure he could breathe without it. He was. 

Bill told me that we sensibly could have a "guarded optimism" that Rob would return "whole". We cling to this but it is becoming more and more unlikely. 

Yesterday, we were told that the longer the respirator aided Rob's breathing, the less likely he would be able to breathe on his own, and the longer it would take him to recover: it must be removed as soon as possible. There are two possible outcomes. First, ideally, he would be able to breathe and return to the rehabilitation floor. They noted this is unlikely and today they added that he could catch pneumonia again. Second, his breathing would be too slow to support himself. They'd do everything to ease the pain but would not resusitate. He is too old. 

Michael is with me, Brendan flew in two days ago, and Gill arrived last night with Derek and Wilder. Tonight Jane and Sebastian fly in.

💕 

Preoccupied

Rob is trying to communicate though not verbally. Since, I wrote the last report, the hospital has him sitting, for a number of hours, in an upright padded chair and although it was good to see this, he was obviously hating it as he kept sliding down the seat and kept grabbing at the binding holding him in (around his crotch). When Michael and I returned yesterday, he was sitting up in a much more comfortable chair with an elevated leg rest (I was impressed) but after an hour, he kept patting the bed as if he wanted to lie down. He also kept pulling at his moustache as it was growing into his mouth as if to tell us that he needed a trim. 

No more mention has been made of inserting a valve into his stomach. I have seen him eat a whole container of apple sauce and some other liquid-gel stuff but refuse caramel pudding. I think he is simply showing what he prefers. (I am going to ask if we can bring him some food, like a pureed chicken soup). We also had a visit from the hospital’s microbiologist who requested that we wear a plastic apron and gloves when visiting to make sure that we are not carrying any bacteria that Rob couldn’t fight it at this time… She also said no to flowers or potted plants. 

Michael and I are a little frustrated as we don’t know which neurologist is caring for him. We have had no updates, no mention of the results of the scan and such. We did try yesterday to arrange a consultation and did speak to a neurologist who Rob has visited in the past, but he said that his colleague is looking after Rob. (And did we ask for a name? NO!) He did say that they are worried as Rob is sleeping so much. (I thought this was the way to heal the brain.) I had a restless night, couldn’t sleep, worrying about how to be kept up to date and such and so I asked a friend Eleyna who calls herself a hand-holder for English-speaking people having to navigate the French medical and legal system to help us. (I call her a cultural attaché.) Hopefully, we will learn more in the next few days. ❤️

Ups and Downs

I had one happy day and one kiss that will have to last a week as the last two days have not been good. Rob had a potassium deficiency so the nurses put him on a drip and fucking hell, restrained his hands once again, forcing him  to lie on his back, unable to raise his arms. They promised to take off the restraints once the potassium drip was finished. Today, when I went in, he had a glucose drip and again his hands were tied (much softer bindings than the ones in Casablanca that were bruising his wrists.) Michael and I were told that we could remove the restraints when we are present and can watch over him so yesterday, I stayed six hours with a short break for a sandwich and cigarette. Today Michael and I are going to try a split shift so we can cover more hours.  

Michael had the doctor write down Rob's situation. “Subdural hematoma (around the brain). Hemorrhagic bruising intraparentrymatous (in the brain).” This is disrupting the connection of synapses which is causing the involuntary grabbing and such. As the blood moves out of the brain, the control will return.

More sobering still is that the flesh is literally hanging off Rob’s bones. (His arms and legs look like parchment and so I’ve been rubbing moisturising cream into them.) He has had little to eat in over a month and the doctor wants permission to put a tub directly into Rob’s stomach and feed him through it. I am despairing because I imagine that he will be tied down for the duration. The problem is that he cannot swallow soft food well and we are not allowed to give him water as it may go into his lungs.

Bev caught Bill, boarding a plane for home, and asked for his advice: "Well it’s a tough situation… because if he can’t swallow properly yet he could aspirate and then develop pneumonia which would be dangerous. If he isn’t getting adequate nutrition I can see the need for the stomach tube but pulling on it would be a disaster also. Oh boy… between a rock and a hard place. It’s a waiting game for his brain to recover yet not have him disturbed while healing. I don’t have an easy answer… "

I do know that Rob's recovery will take months and we will experience many ups and downs but sometimes the swinging makes me dizzy. Without a voice, during his recovery, it’s as if Rob is a child of mine: I hate to see him suffer so I try my best to ease the way for him but sometimes this is impossible.

"And then he kissed me"

Yesterday, when we arrived, Rob was lying on his side! I leaned over to say hello and he raised his arm, wrapped it around my head, pulled me down and kissed me on the lips!

During our visit, he kept squeezing my hand. He stroked Michael's arm, and touched his and then Michael's moustache. Still, he was restless and so Michael played his music. When John Prine's "Long Monday" came on, and Prine sang

Soul to soul
Heart to heart
And cheek to cheek
Come on baby
Give me a kiss
That'll last all week

I touched my lips. (I am still overwhelmed by the kiss.) There were other small signs that Rob was trying to communicate. He pulled at his pillow that was at an uncomfortable angle and at the neck of his hospital gown. (He did this in Casablanca too.) I am not sure if he's trying to say that he wants out of the hospital or, most likely, that he hates wearing clothes in bed. When he kept pushing his hospital bracelet down his wrist, the nurse cut it off and put it on his ankle. (She was amused that Rob then tried to reach down to his ankle.)

Today, Michael has left, with his computer, to try and work by Rob's side. I'm staying home to catch up on paperwork. Tomorrow I will spend the day with Rob. (I am hoping for another kiss.) 

May 25, 2023, Castelnau de Montmiral, France!

 I am overwhelmed. Michael says that the French air ambulance doctor and nurse marched into the Casablanca hospital on the 23rd of May at 11:20 am, went directly to Rob's room, untied his hands, removed all tubes, transferred him onto a gurney, into an ambulance and with lights flashing and siren howling drove directly to Casablanca airport and onto the tarmac. During the flight, the doctor asked Michael about Rob, why he was in Morocco, what he had done for a living, and such. An ambulance met them in Toulouse and again with lights and siren, drove directly to Albi Central Hospital. Luckily I was in the lobby when they entered. Once they had settled Rob into his room, the ambulance doctor spoke to Michael and me about Rob's condition and soon after, the neurologist checked Rob and spoke to us too. We received more information than we had in a month in Casablanca. 

Michael and I visited the next day. Rob pulled at the collar of my blouse as if drawing me closer and it would be wonderful to think he knows me but I’m not sure as he is agitated and pulling on everything. (Is it any wonder after two ambulances and a four hour plane ride yesterday?) On a happy note, he is does not have his hands tied to the sides of his bed. He does not have oxygen tubes up his nose. He does not have electrodes stuck to his chest. Nor is he wearing support hose. He doesn’t even have a catheter. (When I asked the doctor about this, she said he didn’t like it.) After a few hours in his room, we felt such relief. The hospital staff have compassion for my poor confused guy. In Morocco, they had little. 

I am so happy to be home. 

May 20, 2023

 If I weren't so weary, I'd be dancing jigs. Rob is leaving Casablanca on Tuesday, May 23rd at 11 am by air ambulance and taken to Albi CHU. Michael will be flying with him. I will leave the day before and bringing his heavy suitcase with me. A friend will pick me up at the airport. 

I am curious about how a French hospital or rehabilitation centre will differ from the two we've visited in Morocco. I am curious about Rob's reaction to the change. I hope he is given more mobility and that he heals quickly. 

May 18, 2023

I have lost track of the days. I do have the occasional meltdown but I’m alright. Michael arrives this evening. I have not contacted the Canadian Embassy (though the tour company did) because, although Rob is a Canadian, we live in France. And what could they do? I think we are nearly at the end of our Moroccan adventure. Too bad our energy and emotions haven’t made us enthusiastic about exploring the largest financial centre and second largest port in north Africa. Brendan and I did visit Rick’s Cafe twice and found this tourist attraction (the decor a near match for the one in Casablanca, the movie) and the music a greater soother for our frayed nerves.  

I think after today, I will stop the daily report because there’s not much to report other than my frustration with the hospital. I do hope that the French rehabilitation centres are kinder and cleaner than the ones here. Yesterday, I was asked to leave the room when the nurses changed Rob’s bed. When I returned at the end, one nurse was spraying some disinfectant to the top of Rob’s sheet. (He hates the smell of ammonia or any household cleaning product so I don’t use them when he’s at home.) Rob pursued his lips in annoyance I’d say and then stared straight ahead and refused to look at me when I said his name. The only good aspect of this is that I could see Rob is still there although unable to say anything.

I hope our exit won’t take much longer. I’ll only write again when we know the air ambulance is booked and we’re on our way home.

May 17, 2023

 Nothing unusual happened last night. I didn’t ask if I was allowed but fed Rob yogurt and didn't force the watery soup into his mouth. My act of rebellion for the day.

Today at noon, Rob was slightly agitated but still his eyes were clear and he kept staring at me. I was surprised and pleased to meet the neurosurgeon who came into the room. He asked how I found Rob and I replied "sad". He said this is normal: he's been through a lot. He said that the cat scan done that morning showed that Rob was around 19% healed - a good advance - and it would probably take his brain six to nine months to recover. He agreed that a rehabilition centre would be ideal but another 2 or 3 days in the hospital could be useful. Brendan also heard from the insurance agent working on Rob's case and he, in turn, is working with an ambulance company outside of Bordeaux to find a facility for Rob. Brendan will hear from him this afternoon or tomorrow. 

I am once again feeling hopeful.