Running Barefoot
Page 54
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Every once in a while, I’d find myself contemplating how different my life was from the life I’d dreamed of. There was a time when I had dreamed of attending a Performing Arts High School. I never told my dad about that, although I’m sure he would have tried to make it a possibility. The tie that bound me to my home was much too tight, much too strong. Then there was Kasey, and all thoughts of leaving had fled. I remembered the days when Sonja had dreamed that I would perform with the Utah Symphony. But Sonja never made me feel guilty about my choices. She understood what held me. However, I knew she ached for me and worried that I would bury my talent in duty and then someday try to uncover it, only to find it had rusted with time and inattention.
Sonja had aged. The spry 70-year-old of our first days together was suddenly 80. She had started getting more forgetful, wandering off, not remembering where she was or how she got there. A year after Dad’s stroke, Sonja was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Doc called me and asked me to come see her. Sonja was devastated, and I was distraught but somehow unfazed. Life seemed to have become one tragedy after another, and I had gotten good at coping.
Sadly, Doc’s health had deteriorated as well. His mind was sharp, but he was physically ailing. They hired a live-in nurse so they could remain in their home for as long as possible.
It was for Sonja that I started playing the piano again. I would ride my bike up the hill around sundown every day, just like I had for my daily lessons years before, and play for her. I played music that demanded great skill but that didn’t engage my soul. Sonja seemed to crave the cascading scales and the pounding chords and never complained that I spent too much time courting the ‘beast.’ The disease that was slowly robbing her of her personality and her very spirit would cower in the face of my musical onslaught. It was as if the neurological synapses and pathways in her mind that had once been forged by her intense musical study were regenerating and re-firing as the music reminded her confused brain of its intricate knowledge. My fingers would fly, and I would pour all my energy into a frenzy of furious music.
After I played, she would be almost normal, invigorated, without a quirk or slip. This was the only kind of playing I ever did. No beautiful Beethoven or dreamy Debussy, no heartbreaking concertos of love and loss. I played only the technical, only the difficult, only the demanding. She was my sole audience. For most of the next two years, she was coherent and healthy enough to remain at home.
Then one day I rode my bike up the hill to the house, only to have her nurse tell me she was unwell and sleeping. I came back every day for a week. Sonja refused to see me. When I finally insisted on seeing her she seemed fearful, her lip quivering and her eyes filling with tears. She wailed at me to go home. I went to her piano and played desperately, trying to coax her back. For once it didn’t seem to help. She locked her bedroom door, and I could hear her sobbing behind it when I knocked. Her nurse said arrangements needed to be made to put her in a home. Doc and Sonja had made some inquiries and crafted a detailed plan. When it became necessary for Sonja to go to a convalescent home, Doc went with her. Doc passed away in his sleep two months later. Sonja was physically quite healthy, but the spiritual Sonja, her self, was gone - hidden away somewhere, leaving me to grieve as her body lingered to unintentionally mock and remind.
I visited her often at her convalescent home, and she seemed to enjoy the CDs I brought. But she never ‘woke up’ to the music, although she seemed to favor the mellow and the melodious now, shunning the powerful pieces of the last two years for the sweeter nocturnes and serenades. I read to her, as I had done many times before as a young girl. She also enjoyed this, but liked Nancy Drew in lieu of Pride and Prejudice. I tried reading her beloved Wuthering Heights only to have her fling it across the room as I had done in her sitting room so many years earlier. The medication she was on made her less fearful, but I could tell she was always relieved when I left. After all, I was a stranger.
14. Reprise
August, 2007
It had been threatening rain all week, dark clouds rolling in, the sky grumbling, only to roll out again without relinquishing a single drop. The horses would stomp and whinny, the air would crackle with static, and then ....nothing. It was late August and the summer had been especially brutal. We’d had little moisture that summer, and we’d had a fairly mild winter as well. We needed the rain desperately. Still, a week had gone by, and the clouds remained stubbornly full.
That morning I had gotten up at dawn, pulled on my running shoes and walked out to find the skies thick with gray storm clouds. Again. I debated going back to bed, laying under my covers and listening to the rain. I scoffed a little. I knew it wouldn’t rain if I went back to bed, and I would miss my run. The early morning was relatively cool, the darkness of last night having scared off the heat of yesterday. It was perfect running weather, and I wasn’t going to waste it.
I was three miles into the run and just starting to swing back towards home when Mother Nature decided to have a little laugh at my expense. The air grew eerily still, and then there was a mighty crack. Lightening pierced the sky and the thunder boomed. Rain gushed out of the heavy clouds, pounding the dirt road like an overzealous drummer. I squeaked and picked up my feet, flying towards home.
There is nothing like a summer downpour, and I didn’t even mind being caught in it a mile from home. I flew down the road, arms pumping, hair streaming out behind me, shoes squishing. I might have blisters on my feet from the friction, but for now the squishing wasn’t enough to slow me down or put a damper on my gratitude.
Sonja had aged. The spry 70-year-old of our first days together was suddenly 80. She had started getting more forgetful, wandering off, not remembering where she was or how she got there. A year after Dad’s stroke, Sonja was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Doc called me and asked me to come see her. Sonja was devastated, and I was distraught but somehow unfazed. Life seemed to have become one tragedy after another, and I had gotten good at coping.
Sadly, Doc’s health had deteriorated as well. His mind was sharp, but he was physically ailing. They hired a live-in nurse so they could remain in their home for as long as possible.
It was for Sonja that I started playing the piano again. I would ride my bike up the hill around sundown every day, just like I had for my daily lessons years before, and play for her. I played music that demanded great skill but that didn’t engage my soul. Sonja seemed to crave the cascading scales and the pounding chords and never complained that I spent too much time courting the ‘beast.’ The disease that was slowly robbing her of her personality and her very spirit would cower in the face of my musical onslaught. It was as if the neurological synapses and pathways in her mind that had once been forged by her intense musical study were regenerating and re-firing as the music reminded her confused brain of its intricate knowledge. My fingers would fly, and I would pour all my energy into a frenzy of furious music.
After I played, she would be almost normal, invigorated, without a quirk or slip. This was the only kind of playing I ever did. No beautiful Beethoven or dreamy Debussy, no heartbreaking concertos of love and loss. I played only the technical, only the difficult, only the demanding. She was my sole audience. For most of the next two years, she was coherent and healthy enough to remain at home.
Then one day I rode my bike up the hill to the house, only to have her nurse tell me she was unwell and sleeping. I came back every day for a week. Sonja refused to see me. When I finally insisted on seeing her she seemed fearful, her lip quivering and her eyes filling with tears. She wailed at me to go home. I went to her piano and played desperately, trying to coax her back. For once it didn’t seem to help. She locked her bedroom door, and I could hear her sobbing behind it when I knocked. Her nurse said arrangements needed to be made to put her in a home. Doc and Sonja had made some inquiries and crafted a detailed plan. When it became necessary for Sonja to go to a convalescent home, Doc went with her. Doc passed away in his sleep two months later. Sonja was physically quite healthy, but the spiritual Sonja, her self, was gone - hidden away somewhere, leaving me to grieve as her body lingered to unintentionally mock and remind.
I visited her often at her convalescent home, and she seemed to enjoy the CDs I brought. But she never ‘woke up’ to the music, although she seemed to favor the mellow and the melodious now, shunning the powerful pieces of the last two years for the sweeter nocturnes and serenades. I read to her, as I had done many times before as a young girl. She also enjoyed this, but liked Nancy Drew in lieu of Pride and Prejudice. I tried reading her beloved Wuthering Heights only to have her fling it across the room as I had done in her sitting room so many years earlier. The medication she was on made her less fearful, but I could tell she was always relieved when I left. After all, I was a stranger.
14. Reprise
August, 2007
It had been threatening rain all week, dark clouds rolling in, the sky grumbling, only to roll out again without relinquishing a single drop. The horses would stomp and whinny, the air would crackle with static, and then ....nothing. It was late August and the summer had been especially brutal. We’d had little moisture that summer, and we’d had a fairly mild winter as well. We needed the rain desperately. Still, a week had gone by, and the clouds remained stubbornly full.
That morning I had gotten up at dawn, pulled on my running shoes and walked out to find the skies thick with gray storm clouds. Again. I debated going back to bed, laying under my covers and listening to the rain. I scoffed a little. I knew it wouldn’t rain if I went back to bed, and I would miss my run. The early morning was relatively cool, the darkness of last night having scared off the heat of yesterday. It was perfect running weather, and I wasn’t going to waste it.
I was three miles into the run and just starting to swing back towards home when Mother Nature decided to have a little laugh at my expense. The air grew eerily still, and then there was a mighty crack. Lightening pierced the sky and the thunder boomed. Rain gushed out of the heavy clouds, pounding the dirt road like an overzealous drummer. I squeaked and picked up my feet, flying towards home.
There is nothing like a summer downpour, and I didn’t even mind being caught in it a mile from home. I flew down the road, arms pumping, hair streaming out behind me, shoes squishing. I might have blisters on my feet from the friction, but for now the squishing wasn’t enough to slow me down or put a damper on my gratitude.
