I was struck by the loneliness and isolation of illness this week, even when I had some heart surgery, there was no need to isolate me from the world, and people came to visit me and cheer me up whenever they wished, which was not often but steady.

Even in the hospital, I could move around.

This week was different. I was barely able to stand and walk, everyone thought I probably had Covid (including me), and I was told to stay away from people (Maria was told that also) and keep them away from me.

I was in some pain and discomfort.

The sweetest times I had were sitting outside on the lawn with Maria; I felt like Franklin  Roosevelt in those old photos of him sitting in his wheelchair or Adirondack chair in Hyde Park just before he died.

That was lovely but lonely too. I felt old and almost wholly impaired.

But it was the loneliness that struck me.  It is lonely when you can’t stand up for the first time. You don’t want anyone to see it.

It is isolating to be sick, which always drew me to my work with the extreme elderly at the Mansion. I remember sitting with my grandmother when she was dying and having this sense of isolation and loneliness, her brown eyes gray and blank.

 

They so appreciate someone visiting, but during the epidemic, I could barely do that, and many died alone, isolated from their friends and family.

At the worst this week, I thought of them. I related to them.

New York Times Book Review: “At the end of Andrew Holleran’s novel “The Beauty of Men,” published in 1997, a man called Lark, living close to a boat ramp in northern Florida — a gay cruising spot — decides that “he has no reason to go there anymore. He no longer has any reason to go anywhere.” After the death of his mother, he “has no one to disappoint or lie to or feel guilty about.” Soon, however, he finds himself back at the boat ramp.”

I know that’s not my life, but days of fever and isolation can dampen a perspective. That’s what it felt like this week.

People texted me the first few days, good friends, but we didn’t have a lot to say to each other. I appreciated the messages – texts and e-mails. Look, Maria, I said I have good friends.

And I liked answering them until I began to be bored by the sound of myself: temperature up, fever down, back hurts, back better, I slept a bit, I couldn’t sleep, not eating.

Why couldn’t I think of anything more interesting to say?

I felt vapid. My mind wasn’t deep enough to manufacture thoughts while I was doing nothing and feeling so foggy.

I guess I was unknowingly affected by being so alone – Maria had plenty to do between caring for me and taking care of the farm and her studio and cooking, shopping, and running to the pharmacy.

But I had nothing to do but hurt, and every time I tried to do something, it was a near catastrophe, making me feel even more helpless, useless, and old.

Would it matter if I died, I thought at one point? Wouldn’t everyone get over it, even those legions of nitpickers who troll the Internet searching for mistakes.

I make plenty. I’m a reliable stopping point.

But then I would take my camera outside, take some pictures, and put them on the blog, and people would love them, appreciate the,m and thank me for writing them.

It didn’t really work the way I wanted for the first few dayso. I was just hitting the shutter button, I wasn’t really feeling it. I wasn’t making art with my new cameras.

The photos were okay, but they didn’t catch the magic I knew was there. It was discouraging to me.

That changed today. Somehow, all the pain made me sharp and focused me.

 

Today, I found my groove.

I had my body to care for, medicine to take, liquid to drink, e-mail to read, bills to pay, and those text messages, which dwindled to a few, as they should. People need to live their own lives, not mine.

My illness flushed my sister out of her retreat in the far North. We rarely speak.

She has a close friend who reads my blog and when I am sick and in trouble, she messages my sister and says “call your brother.” Then she comes running.

My sister and I are close, but not, we’ve seen each other once in 25 years, and that was not a comfortable visit for either of us.

My sister never calls me unless told by a friend to do so. Then she wants to know all about it. She is honest and admits her friend told her to call. I couldn’t go over it all for her.

Otherwise, she doesn’t seem to want to know; something that stung this week. It’s not her fault; our family is just a tragic mess; all we do is disappointed each other.

Today, she asked me if there was anyone in healthcare I wanted her to call and yell at. I don’t know if she was kidding, but it felt familiar to me. Why would she ask me that?

I couldn’t talk with her, I was too tired, we texted for a few minutes, and she asked me a lot of questions, but I finally told her to ask her friend what was going on if she wanted to know, her friend reads my blog.

 

 

It seemed hard to say, but it felt good to say it. This week was a time to be honest if nothing else. The messages told me we really didn’t have anything to say to one another, a sad realization for two people who were once so close.

This was sad, and I felt isolated again; a wave of melancholy came over me.  Thinking about my family is never good.

I didn’t really want to talk to anyone today, I felt I was just taking up space.

I went outside with my Leica 2 and  Zinnia and took several of the most beautiful photos I remember taking. I had to lean on things to stand up. My head cleared in excitement and satisfaction.

It was an excellent decision to turn to art. Art is healing, an antidote to pain for me.

My photography makes me feel like an artist, which lifts me up. It pushed the cloud away today; I was wearing out.

I experimented with light and color and was delighted with the results.

I think art is often, but not always, born out of pain. Mine was today, and it brought me back into the world. Pain and art were a good combination for me this week.

I don’t believe you need to suffer to make good art, joy is a wonderful stimulus also, but today I felt the pain give me an edge and a motive and inspiration: I needed to prove to myself that I was alive, I wasn’t Roosevelt sitting in that chair waiting to leave.

I am alive and vital and my creativity was creeping up to the surface to help me and rescue me from isolation.

Maria was up to her neck all day, often in my troubles and needs, I wouldn’t go to her and bother her, I needed to come out of the clouds. I couldn’t lean on her; she was the only person around.

I took photos every day, even when it cost me.

We’ve put the Covid thing behind, I don’t have it.  The messages slowed, then stopped.

Now we’ve picked up the bug and tick thing, which will be explored, tested, and investigated tomorrow in Saratoga with my doctors, who I trust. They will figure it out.

It is less glamourous than Covid for sure, I wonder if it hurts as much.

I plan on going to the  Bishop Maginn prom Friday. I can, with Maria’s help, take Zinnia to the groomer next week as planned for tomorrow. There is new medicine and bloodwork and possibly imaging in my future.

This and my pictures are pulling me back into the world. I see the light just up ahead.