Thanatos
Thursday, January 07, 2021
 | La Recoleta - Buenos Aires
|
Thanks to Darwin we understand that one of the primary roles
of any species lies in the continuity of preservation. Epicurus said we fear death but because there is no pain in it, there is no reason to fear it. When my
philosophy professor in Mexico City, Ramón Xirau told us that in class it felt
logical.
Because of Darwin we know that we reproduce and have
offspring so as to preserve our DNA. Suicide goes against the grain of
self-preservation so it shocks us when we are exposed to it.
The death of my Rosemary and our mutual and believed
knowledge that we will never meet again and that our 52 years are all we were
going to get has me suddenly feeling that much closer to death.
Because of Epicurus, at night, I try to think about not
being. I am unable to grasp that concept because it is against my Darwinian
principle that I have to live on and will live on. Perhaps there is some hardy
human out there who can circumvent that. Perhaps when Rosemary in the middle of
the night told me, "I don't want to
be here," was almost there. We cannot surmise what it feels like to
know you are dying. Perhaps it is such an exceptional occurrence that the dying
person has no words to explain it. And we must wait for our own death to find
out about that truth that cannot be shared.
As I navigate my grief and the almost-all-the-time awareness
of her not being (in that Epicurean sense of the word) I revel that I am ever
so lucky to be alive and to have pleasant feelings. There are four reasons.
Rosemary and I decided (did we luck out?) to have two
daughters instead of two sons. During this whole ordeal in which sometimes I
have been selfishly aware that our two daughters lost their mother and that I
am not the only one to grieve, I get support and cheerful help from them. They
have been teaching me to sort out the garbage and to pay my bills. They call
every day to ask how I am.
The other two reasons are our two brother and sister cats,
Niño and Niña. They cling for attention constantly .The idea of showing
tenderness towards them is only a small measure of what it was when I did so
with Rosemary. But it helps. Today Thursday, January 7, 2021 I took Niño for a
walk around the block. This was the first time he walked (he gallivants on his
own after breakfast every day) with me. His last walk may have been sometime, mid-November
before his mistress was unable to walk.
It felt good. But that presence, not around, makes me think
that the best I ever had has been had and the loneliness of my future will
only end with Thanatos. Is there any solace in knowing that it will not be painful?
My little bird - Rosemary
The curious banality of death
If God were a woman
My Rosemary & Leibniz and Newton Ashes denote that Fire Was My Rosemary - the Decider in Chief Who will be first? She was
Who Will Be First? May 18, 2013 My Rosemary the Hoarder
My Rosemary is no more
Smelling behind the ears On the same wings, these two can fly My Rosemary's nine beds Esa rubia en especial Deo gratias
My Little Bird - Rosemary
Tuesday, January 05, 2021
 | La Boca in Buenos Aires - Sept 2019
| When I first met Rosemary in the waning days of 1967 people
who knew her told me she ate “como un
pajarito”. It was not until we moved to Vancouver in 1975 that I found out
that there was such a thing as an eating disorder or that I was dyslexic!
So in our 52 years together I had to coax and trick her to
eat. If you piled stuff on her plate she would
The curious banality of death
If God were a woman
My Rosemary & Leibniz and Newton Ashes denote that Fire Was My Rosemary - the Decider in Chief Who will be first? She was
Who Will Be First? May 18, 2013 My Rosemary the Hoarder
My Rosemary is no more
Smelling behind the ears On the same wings, these two can fly My Rosemary's nine beds Esa rubia en especial Deo gratias Now that she is gone
I have the questionable and upsetting ability to eat what I want and not what
she would have eaten. I can eat steaks (I am an Argentine) but my desire for
meat is greatly diminished. What did Rosemary eat? There were a few things she adored
and in her last three months of life she had that woman’s “I am pregnant” food desires so she would say, “I want to eat papaya." (at 3 in the morning) - or a tomato sandwich. We both liked unsalted, cultural butter.
Rosemary liked, Manila mangoes, Mexican rice with a fried
egg on top, ditto on mashed potatoes, my barbecued hamburgers, ditto hot dogs,
Bonne Maman strawberry jam, Nestlé Quick, many spoonfuls (she would stir the mixture with a spoon and
make a noise close to that of chalk on a blackboard. She knew it annoyed me so
this was one very rare trait of her little cruelty!), Yorkshire pudding (she
was famous for it), her flan with a spoonful of Nestle Nescafe and lots of
burnt sugar syrup. The biggest smile would happen in our Merida hotel or in any other. ny other
Mexican hotel when she faced papaya for breakfast.
Rosemary made delicious pineapple squares that we served
when we had an open garden. It was only after about 45 years together that she told
me that she really did not like my special cucumber sandwiches (English style)
that I served at those garden openings.
While I loved asparagus she did not care for them. But Brussels Sprouts she liked while I passed on
them.
She tolerated my homemade pizza.
The high point of our day for at least 25 years was our
breakfast in bed with our cats. We had the NY Times and the Vancouver Sun to
read. In our tray for her she had toast with her Bonne Maman strawberry jam.
She would drink her terrible Decaf which I made in a French press. She said
that my orange juice was too acid but when I served freshly made apple juice
she liked it. For the first ten years we had bacon for breakfast. This custom
began to slow down as we felt we needed to eat healthier. But occasional she
would manage a couple of my very crisp bacon. What really made her happy was when I prepared hot cream of wheat with brown sugar. I am sure she suspected that I put in my 2% milk not her 1% and sometimes added cream.
In the middle of those “pregnant desire” nights she would go
down for peanut butter and crackers.
There was one custom of hers to which I had mixed feelings.
She always wanted to try what I was eating when we went to restaurants. But in the
end if she was willing to eat anything I let her try.
Rosemary liked my Mexican cooking. She had a fondness for
quesadillas made from wheat tortillas and with the strong Gruyere I used. She
liked my Mexican salsa but I had to make two batches one had Serrano chiles the
other did not.
Our fave quick dessert was the Argentine quince jelly called
dulce the membrillo which we sandwiched with that Gruyere or a cheddar.
Presently in this rainy January melancholy I am trying to
finish eating anything that Rosemary might have bought. Will I be able to not
connect anything I may eat for the rest of my life?
I doubt it. And yes she liked Fanta and that is what she is holding in that bar in La Boca.
New Year's In Veracruz With My Rosemary
Thursday, December 31, 2020
 | Burnaby - Springer Ave - 1975
| For me New Year’s has always been a bittersweet event. I
never did like going out and then to be suddenly embraced by perfect strangers.
And I don’t drink.  | Rosemary & Alexandra Elizabeth - New Year's Veracuz 1968
|
Rosemary had adopted, since I can remember being together, the
idea of eating twelve grapes before the clock struck 12. This was a Spanish
custom in my family. This year I did not have the heart to do this in
the solitude of my Kits home accompanied by Niño and Niña.
But I can remember at least two most memorable New Year’s. They were our first, ones, one in 1967 and the other in 1968. In the latter our new
Alexandra Elizabeth was with us.
Those first two New Year’s we spent in the port city of
Veracruz where my mother in her house on Navegantes taught school to the children
of the employees of Alcoa Aluminum who had their headquarters in the city.
In that first 1967 New Year’s it was not our first time
there. We had been there before, and if I count back, 9 months from Ale’s
birthday in August 1968, surely she was engendered in some hot night in
Veracruz where I had carefully oiled the hinges of our two separate bedrooms.
New Year’s in Veracruz, with the hospitality of my mother who
adored Rosemary, was a pleasure. Rosemary never did adapt to the humid heat of
the port city and took various showers during the day. But I remember those evening
walks on the Malecón (Spanish for a seaside boulevard) holding hands and
smelling that curiously almost pleasant smell of humidity, the sea, bunker oil
and fish. All I could do was to stare at Rosemary’s face and think how lucky I
was to have that blonde all to myself.
And of course at midnight nothing beats the sounding of the
ship’s sirens. Because we lived in the altitude of Mexico City it was startling to wake up on January 1 to the
louder noises that happen when at sea level there is more oxygen.
In that 1968 New Year’s
Eve when Ale was four month old we might have taken her on her first Veracruz
tram ride. She might have sat with us as we sipped the famous jarocho (Mexican Spanish for of or from
Veracuz) coffee called a “lechero” at
the Parroquia on the Zócalo. This notable corner coffee and restaurant
establishment was tiled in white (it almost felt like you were in a bathroom)
with large overhead fans. But we opted for the portales outside where the marimbas played and you could hear the
clanging of the trams and smell the sweet exhaust of the liquid gas-powered
(all made mostly of wood) buses. The curious banality of death
If God were a woman
My Rosemary & Leibniz and Newton Ashes denote that Fire Was My Rosemary - the Decider in Chief Who will be first? She was
Who Will Be First? May 18, 2013 My Rosemary the Hoarder
My Rosemary is no more
Smelling behind the ears On the same wings, these two can fly My Rosemary's nine beds Esa rubia en especial Deo gratias
In spite of all those cold Vancouver New Year’s Eves my
memory of the evening has always been of humidity and heat and of holding
hands.
With the death of Rosemary on December 9 there have been few
events since then that have in any way helped me forget that she is not around.
But there was one happy incident which I will write about here so I can finish
this 2020 in an almost positive note that the next year will bring some needed
joy in what is left of my now unshared existence.
I wrote this blog in which I included a lovely Polaroid
SX-70 snap that I took of her in 1975 when we had just moved to our house in
Burnaby (Springer Ave). As things go I noticed that the photograph was
luminously beautiful. But I could not find the original. I asked Ale I Lillooet.
I looked into all our family albums and in those files of family photographs
that are currently in disarray in our (my) dining room.
I was desparate as the scan that I had was in very low
resolution. I looked everywhere. Then I went to a large armoire in our piano
room. There was nothing in the drawers. I opened the double doors where there
are some Mexican dresses. On the floor there was the Polaroid staring right at
me.
Such joy!
The Curious Banality of Death & the Remnants that Persist
Monday, December 28, 2020
“La gente que se da citas precisas es la misma
que necesita papel rayado para escribirse o que aprieta desde abajo el tubo del
dentífrico” Julio Cortázar – Rayuela
“That people who make precise dates are the same kind who need lines on their writing paper, or who always
squeeze up from the bottom on a tube of toothpaste.” Julio Cortázar - Hopscotch
Death in the 21st century I am sure is no different from
others. And yet.
In the other century when someone in the family died you
called up your other family and friends and then you put an obituary in the
local paper. People would then mail sympathy cards. I have received many in the
last couple of weeks since the death of my Rosemary. But the cards and emails have come for a 21st century reason.
What surely makes death be seen in another light or facet is
the role of social media and in my case my posting of my blog in social media.
When I saw what was coming I began to write blogs that describe the process of
my Rosemary’s going away in a subtle manner so that few would guess outright
what was happening.
Her death was an ordeal (surely to her) but to my two
daughters and granddaughters, and of course me. I must write here that the
writing of it all has given me solace in an understanding as I tried to put
what I was feeling and thinking into words.
When my Rosemary died, not too many minutes later, I
photographed her hand on Niña the cat (her cat, my cat, our cat).
It has been difficult for me to change from saying or
writing “our” daughters, cats, house,
etc to the singular “my”.
But what has been more difficult is the slow removing of
stuff that reminds me of her that makes it painful for me to live alone in a
house with two clingy cats,
I believe that they quickly forget of situations but
understand that they now only have one human to attach to. And this they do.
And this is calming and soothing. I don’t feel completely alone.
Removing that stuff is the difficult task. Her hearing aids
went to a friend of my daughter Ale in Lillooet. I keep finding the little
batteries for them everywhere and I must take them to London Drugs. My daughter
Hilary will come on Saturday to sift through our bathroom drawers to remove all
the medicines that are not needed.
I have been emptying the fridge since December 9, the date
of my Rosemary’s passing. My daughter Ale and I thought of all kinds of food
that we thought Rosemary might want. There was soft white bread, cut up melon,
mango sorbet, Orange Crush and lots more. I have been eating it and have had to
throw mouldy bread away. What am I to do with the Nestle Quick she mixed I heaps
with her 1% milk? She would stir the mixture in a mug with a spoon and make a
noise close to that of chalk on a blackboard. I hated the noise. I miss it now.
What am I to do with the decaf coffee grounds she stopped drinking months ago?
A curious quirk of her sickness was that strange female-pregnant desire to eat
stuff for one day or two and then no more. How were Ale and I to know that a
cancer of a liver (among the many things wrong with Rosemary) would not make her want to
eat anything? In the last three days, Coke and ice was all she would consume. If God were a woman
My Rosemary & Leibniz and Newton Ashes denote that Fire Was My Rosemary - the Decider in Chief Who will be first? She was
Who Will Be First? May 18, 2013 My Rosemary the Hoarder
My Rosemary is no more
Smelling behind the ears On the same wings, these two can fly My Rosemary's nine beds Esa rubia en especial Deo gratias Today I washed the sheets and pillow cases. I had changed them
after Rosemary died. But there were death stains on the mattress cover. I
washed it twice. Is this a remnant of her death, a presence that I have
obliterated?
In the scan here you see the empty Kleenex box. She kept
them and would fill them with cheap boxed Kleenex. The tube of toothpaste, she
purchased all our toiletries. Once this one is used up I will have to suddenly
buy toothpaste for myself. The kitty litter odour eater ran out last night. I
emptied the kitty litter (Tuesday, tomorrow is when the garbage is collected)
and bought the Arm & Hammer at the Bosley’s around the corner. I have
learned to take out the garbage and my daughter Ale is going to slowly teach me
how to pay bills.
Cooking is now a tad easier. I can eat what Rosemary did not
want to eat. My food bill will be a more frugal one as opposed to “our” food
bill.
Traveling, when that happens, will be complex. I worked with
a travel agency called Rosemary Elizabeth Waterhouse-Hayward
Rosemary had a thing for paper napkins. There were at least
three kinds with a Christmas theme. The one here is what we used for our
Christmas Eve dinner (photographs to put in a blog soon!).
And yes I was never able to convince her in our 52 year marriage
that you had to squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom. She was obstinate and that was one more reason why I loved her.
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