The Tempest
No amount of photography could shelter me from this storm.
It is a month ago today that the storm began. In retrospect, it started at the beginning of September, but hindsight is 20/20 and back then, we had no inkling of the trouble that was brewing. My last post, Transitions has a prophetic title. Nothing could have prepared me for the very real transition which we were about to face. One that I would survive and that my wife would not.
That post from September 21st includes some pictures from the time she was in hospital, but I was either lying to myself or just couldn’t bear to speak the terrible truth of what I knew. At the time, I was laser focused on getting her back home. There was no way on earth I was going to let her die in the windowless overflow of the Day Surgery Ward of Campbellford Memorial Hospital.
But I am getting ahead of myself. As you may know, I posted three times in September, but there were still more photos I wanted to share. Nervous energy propelled me again and again towards the great outdoors. I would head to the woods for both of us, Ruth being confined now to a wheelchair since a leg break the previous year. I went back to Carstairs in The Northumberland Forest, the only wheelchair friendly nature reserve in our vicinity.
Looking back on September now, I felt an uneasiness from the beginning that I wrote off to the changing seasons and an upcoming work project, but in hindsight was more like an unconscious stirring in my soul. My sweetie was in a state of melancholy. Her appetite having slipped away day by day throughout the month with her complaining about being tired all the time. Even small efforts were leaving her exhausted. I was worried of course, but hoped it would pass. She said she thought she might be getting a cold. Fair enough I thought. We can deal with that.
Photography has often been a way for me to work through things. To break away from day to day worries and focus on the present moment and the natural world I love to immerse myself in. So here I was at the entrance to Carstairs early in September. The weather had been grand, still summerlike. A cyclist pulled into the parking lot after a refreshing morning ride. I was on my way to do grocery shopping but had taken some time out of my day to go for a short walk and clear my head.
I visited this place last year when the larch had turned yellow and dropped its needles creating paths that resembled yellow brick roads from the Wizard of Oz. Most of the images I shot that day were in black and white, but I did capture the yellow hued pathway with my phone which I later processed on my computer.
I have returned a couple of times since, although the pines were still green when I visited on this occasion. The park is the only tract of Northumberland County Forest currently wheelchair accessible. As an able bodied person, it is only too easy to not think about accessibility issues. And then when I did, I could scarcely believe how blind I have been to the scarcity of opportunity people in wheelchairs face. It finally struck me how important it is for people with mobility issues to be able to simply follow a path through the woods. Ruth was now in a wheelchair. That was the thought that dominated my mind as I strolled down the flat trails of Carstairs. Could I get her to come here?
But this was back on the 10th of September. A few images that didn’t quite fit into my earlier posts. Taken a lifetime ago, or so it seems to me now, before the storm hit in earnest. The photos above are illustrative of how photography offers gentle refuge from the normal ups and downs of life. But this storm would be different. And photography alone might not be enough.
September 16 - The Storm Arrives
I won’t go into a lot of details. Suffice it to say that life can turn on a dime, and reality can change from predictable to un-sure or even a nightmare in the blink of an eye. The road ahead for us had clouded over.
Despite the wild utterances of an emergency room doctor the night before, the sun still rose as usual the following morning. But Ruth was not home and I had no idea when or even if I could get her home anytime soon. None of this had been planned.
The next 12 days featured oxygen tubes, hospital food and nurses scurrying about answering calls and monitoring coughs and other complaints from the assembled inmates. Patients came and went. I sat by Ruth’s bedside for as many hours as I could muster, cognizant of my need for self care and girding myself for whatever lay ahead. We tried to keep it light. I brought her the new Vera book by Anne Cleeves. Usually, I had my camera by my side, ready to grab an hour here or there as a respite from my vigil should the opportunity arise.
Repeated from my Transitions post mentioned above, Hillside Park is very close to the hospital. Just down the street in fact. That’s what I was doing there. I came upon this magical light after spending most of the day at her bedside. Grabbing moments like these, grabbing meals where I could (often her meals) and sleep when it would come suddenly became my new normal. Despite my best efforts, I consistently hit the sack late. Too late. I was burning with nervous energy and then up early to greet the dawn and head back to CMH. The fact the sun still rose in the morning seemed a small comfort. Not everything had changed. Not yet at least.
On Thursday, I headed south of town between morning and afternoon visits, down the Trent Canal to Hagues Reach Generating Station. Art Chamberlain had mentioned a new park being built down there where they were putting in a small development. I had never been down there before. We had never been there. I felt a bit guilty for enjoying the day, but pushed the feeling away. I spotted this young couple fishing from the dam, their whole lives in front of them. What a gift our lives are.
As I was standing there, an ominous cloud passed overhead. The sun was completely blocked out for a minute or two. It felt ominous to me but had little effect on the air temperature and the sun soon returned.
Abstract photos - abstract thoughts
Leaving the couple and the clouds behind, I wandered about the dam somewhat disoriented. As I stared down into the turbulent waters, my sense of direction started to slip away. I held on tightly to the rail, shooting with one hand, not really sure which way was up. Perhaps the lack of sleep was starting to catch up with me. Caught up in abstract thought. Nothing firm in my mind.
Stepping away from the edge, I sat on the lake side of the concrete dam, dangling my feet towards the quiet water and noticing this little heart shaped leaf floating past a group of water lilies. It was the sweetest thing and brought a tear to my eye. And then I knew it was time to head back to the hospital.
Doug McRae Property
On Sunday, I went down to Presqu’ile before heading to the hospital. The Northumberland Land Trust was having another open house, this time Doug McCrae’s property near the gates of the provincial park which he is just in the process of donating. Ruth knew I had this plan to visit the property and was not expecting me until late morning.
Again, I took refuge from the storm with my camera, following behind a crowd of about 20 people. Poking my lens here and there, photographing the last days of Doug’s meadow and looking out for Monarchs for which the property is famous and which the event was billed around. They never showed. It hasn’t been the best year for monarchs and I think they had mostly all left by the time this event rolled around. Someone said they saw one, but I can’t be sure.
I hardly spoke to anyone. Many of my photos are quite bleak. Dying vegetation, but also some pollinators and a few colourful end of summer flowers. All of these wild things partaking in the ongoing cycle of life that surrounds us.
Milkweed seeds lay scattered upon the vegetation. They had already flown their best flight. Already landed where they will drop to the ground and hopefully bring forth new plants next year.
I returned to the hospital in time for lunch. As usual, I ate most of it myself, Ruth sticking to the juices and meal replacements and avoiding the soup. This will be the last time I swan off to take pictures, I thought to myself. I am needed here more.
More days passed. The frustration of being in the hospital continued to build. We have to get home. I never meant this to be permanent. We worked out a plan with Dr. Parks, our palliative care doctor, and then everybody pulled in the same direction. And it came together by week’s end. Before week’s end actually. For Ruth and I, our relief was palpable. Finally back home. Back where we belong. But the storm was not over. We had just entered the next phase and it was going to get rocky from there on out.
I found myself on unfamiliar ground. A caretaker, an organizer, making decisions for both of us and supporting her as best I could by giving her as much agency as she could handle. Everything had changed. Her life had changed. My life had changed. I clinged to the life lines tossed out to us, thankful for each caring human that lent a hand. Angels in the storm. And there were many of them.
But I wondered, can I cope and for how long? Usually, photography creates moments of respite for me. Of gratitude. Of beauty and meaning. Photography is a gift for my needy soul. But this. This was something different. Clearly photography was not going to be enough. I had no time for it anyways. Every moment counted now. Every moment precious. It was harvest time.
Again, I won’t go into detail. The next week was lovely and hard and frustrating and beautiful. Beauty was present in the room. Every moment a gift. We grew very close. We said our goodbyes. I took pictures of the back porch being poured with concrete to show Ruth because that was also happening, and the wheel chair ramp to make our home accessible went in at the front of the house. Finally, but too late. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Only our love for each other. Two hearts beating as one.
We were lucky. The end came mercifully quick. A rainstorm came upon us on Sunday night. One of those storms at the end of summer that changes everything. It had been a difficult day. The skies opened up and the sound of thunder was heard in the near distance. Lightning filled the sky for a short time and there were a few loud bangs. And then as fast as it came, the rain stopped. The temperature dropped. A radical change. The last of the summer weather appeared to be done. And my dear Ruthy was done too. She hung on for another 24 hours, but she was already gone. She could no longer talk or move. She seemed not to hear me even as I told her over and over the three words that were my only remaining message.
When darkness fell, she was gone. I made the dreaded phone calls. Then I stepped outside to take in the newly minted fall air. A light flashed in the sky to the north. We had talked about the Aurora recently. It was on the news. Solar activity was up and the northern lights were a distinct possibility. And here it was, as if right on cue. A reflection of our beautiful life together.
In the days that followed the Aurora came back several times, sometimes even when it wasn’t cloudy. Closing out the week, the best and most powerful northern lights display I have ever seen filled the skies from east to west. It was different too. It flashed like I have never seen before. No mild undulations, it pulsated from top to bottom many times a second. Wow!
Ruth (Walters) Charlton - 1954 - 2024
I usually include a piece of music at the end of my posts, but this post is special and as such I would like to direct you to my latest post on John’s Jukebox for a somewhat sentimental journey dedicated to the one I love.
I'm so sorry to have missed this earlier .. I admire your courage in sharing, and hope you know that with this courage you've planted seeds of gratitude for each day.
My heart goes out to you.