Wishing for the Banal

It's one of those Saturday mornings where I find myself sandwiched between two fully-charged heating pads, iPhone and throat lozenges in one robe pocket, TV remote in the other, uncomfortably situated in the worn leather recliner that I can never quite conform to my back, under the lulling influence of 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and hydrocodone-laced cough medicine.  My oldest child has taken up temporary residence on our similarly worn couch with her own iPhone, alternately playing rounds of Words With Friends with friends (how else?) and dozing in between DVR'd episodes of "Sex In The City," almost a full three days into her post-exploratory-laparoscopic-procedure convalescence, herself also under the influence of a pain-numbing narcotic.   

Just your typical weekend in Middle Tennessee suburbia, eh?

Though I don't care for the overt sexual nature of the aforementioned program, I am drawn to the witty intelligent writing, and the positive trajectory of the enduring friendship between the four women characters around which all plot and thematic lessons revolve.  And quite possibly I appreciate the 100% departure from suburbia inherent in viewing the show.  The quote-o'-the-day, and consequently my laugh of the day, comes from an episode where the ladies must leave the comfort of their Big Apple to attend the baby shower of an old friend who resides in the 'burbs of Connecticut, where our main heroine, the writer of a newspaper column, observes "I was struck by how a place so filled with nature could look so-o unnatural."  But it's the disgusted utterance of one of the lawyer member of the quartet which cracked me up so completely, "There's a woman in there breastfeeding a child who can chew steak."  As with most humor, the origin of its hilarity lies in the core of truth at its center. 

The highlight of our pre-noon day centered around my Ashley's victory in finally being able to attend to her own post-toilet hygienic ablutions.  She still requires assistance for standing in the fully upright and locked position, but somehow this little bathroom victory feels a lot like the moment in her toddlerhood where she finally figured out how to wipe herself during potty-training!  Funny how malaise, whether viral- or trauma- or surgery-induced, strips a person of the most basic physical, and often mental, abilities.  Including but not limited to: recalling the grocery list, grocery shopping itself, organizing the family schedule, reading an entire book chapter without passing out, eating without wheezing, peeing without stops and starts, moving one's bowels AT ALL, even the passing of gas.  Upon their return -- sometimes painful day by painful day, oft times a simple night's sleep away -- we experience a profound appreciation for the banal.  And then the flow of life rushes in to fill the blank spaces left in the departing wake of forced rest, discomfort and medications.  The banal is once again relegated to the periphery of awareness.

At least for most of us.  I can't help but to think of examples from this past week where the axiom I outlined above does not play out.  Examples to which I share a personal connection.  Examples of the heartbreaking variety that have contributed to my underlying emotional fatigue, which surely have played a large part in keeping this persistent virus on board and adoring its stressed and worn-like-the-living-room-furniture hostess.

The most extreme of these examples revolves around a friend of my mother's who lived in the same little building as my mom and roughly fifty other ageing and/or disabled people.  Collectively, this body of mostly women, a few men, visiting family members and a bevy of healthcare workers, make up the interactive community of the Holiday House.  I've been a part of this place long enough to realize the name is rather a misnomer.  Still, there is a weary charm to be felt up and down the halls of the two-story brick apartments.  And there's something all at once comforting and reliable about walking into the lobby, balancing my armloads of this, that and the other thing, signing the visitor's book, and realizing the entire time that the eyes of the ladies huddled around the coffee table and television behind me are following my every move.  To me, their habits of curiosity mean that while a gossipy few may incorrectly conjecture and spread misinformation, the balance of residents will responsibly know what goes on within the walls of their encampment and this awareness fosters a true sense of safety.  Not too much will slip by and allow unwelcome surprises at some later date.

Except in the case of Carol and her husband, Ray.  Carol and Ray met and began their romance as residents of the Holiday House.  Carol was one of the original crew of ladies for whom I harbor a specific affection who initially befriended my mother when she moved in.  The kids and I enjoyed weekend and summer visits in the game room upstairs, constructing puzzles and rolling the Yahtzee dice, and listening to the stories and banter of Carol, Sarah and Vera (little old ladies laden with character, and sisters to boot), Earl -- one of the only gents living there in the early days of mom's time there, who I always thought had a bit of an unrequited  'thing' for Carol, and whoever else was able to leave the confines of their rooms and make their way up via the elevator. In the spectrum of age displayed amongst the ranks, Carol was on the younger side, which is to say mid to late sixties.

When I first met Ray, I found myself charmed by his quick smile and friendly ways.  Not to mention that he possessed a playful handsomeness that he wielded without guile.  When I heard the news of his impending marriage to Carol, I couldn't help but to think how apt their late-in-life matching was.  The way Carol positively lit up whenever she was in Ray's presence was impressive.  It was a softer side of her that I'd not previously witnessed.  A genuine testament to the power of that elusive thing we call 'true love.'  As I'm not one to exercise trite phrases simply to fill in the blanks, rest assured that their romantic love was, indeed, the real deal.

Last fall, I was among those folks who attended Carol's and Ray's simple wedding ceremony out on the back patio of the Holiday House.  I snapped an album's worth of photos of the event, and each time I look at those pictures I can still feel the joy evident between the couple and in the adult children, cousins, octogenarians (and at least one centenarian) and others who witnessed the joining.  It was the sort of joy that transforms a basic ceremony into a moment more lavish than even the most extravagant of planned nuptials.  And it was one of those shared moments that created an atmosphere of excitement in the lives of the residents there that transformed a few weeks of ordinary autumn into the extraordinary. 

A Saturday ago, our region experienced a morning of heavy long-lasting fog.  It blanketed every nook and cranny of every yard and field, every roadway and intersection.  And it caused a traffic accident at a specific light on the edge of town which spawned a secondary collision that abruptly changed the partnership of Carol and Ray in ways no one saw coming.  Ray ended up at our local hospital with various broken bones and contusions; Carol's injuries, including a torn aorta, resulted in a lifeflight to Vanderbilt in Nashville.  And until last night, husband and wife were unable to be together as their respective medical teams and families set about getting them put back together enough to reunite.  Though Carol's previously-existing COPD merged with the damage from her injuries and made breathing on her own impossible, it seemed that her step-down from one form of assisted breathing to another would eventually lead to a restoration of her basic ability to follow an inhale with an exhale.  My mom decided to put off visiting Carol until she was significantly improved, opting for a the less obtrusive card for the here and now.

But improvement didn't come.  Last night, doctors informed the family that she would never be able to breathe on her own and she was lapsing in and out of a coma-like state with more frequency.  The decision was made to remove her trachea tube and allow nature to take its course.  Per advanced directive, this was Carol's wish under such circumstances.  (Who among us average Joes ever thinks it will come down to this?)  Barring the advent of a miracle, death was a certainty.

Ray's daughter rushed him to Vanderbilt where he met up with the pastor from their church.  Perhaps the one miracle here was that when Joe bent down to show his wife who was there and they explained that the entire church was in prayer for her situation, Carol opened her eyes and smiled, thus seeing her beloved for one final time.  The stripped-down reality of that last look between these precious friends and lovers demands our attention.  And our sympathy.

I woke to today's news from my mom that Carol passed away during the night.  Her family decided that instead of a funeral, they would have a memorial service to celebrate her life.  And it would be held at the same place where Carol had enjoyed a rich life of friendships and marital love: the Holiday House.  That seems fitting to me.  I believe Carol would approve wholeheartedly.  Though I know Ray must surely be aching with a pain far more profound and lasting than anything resulting from the car crash, the comfort he will draw from being surrounded by those who knew Carol best, and knew him as her other half, will be source of sustenance for the days ahead without his best friend.

Ray and Carol were denied their co-return to the banal.  It happened quickly, much the way this blog entry shifted in an instant from humorous to somber.  For that, I'm most sorry. 

(This is a link to a Facebook album containing the wedding photos of which I wrote:

Ray & Carol Say, "I Most Certainly DO!"