Letter to Robert III ~ Because You’re Mine
There’s photos on our ‘fridge door that I haven’t scanned ~ our ‘adopted’ step-grandchild Aaron Nishant Dey in his white tuxedo; you and I holding hands in Martha’s house many years ago; our cockatiel Freddie with his little crest ~ but there are so many stashed in envelopes all around the house I could be sorting through them forever. Our memories are scattered throughout our home, and I’ve tried to find the most evocative and relevant ones.
I was recently asked, sweetheart, how you might feel about your injury and treatment being documented in this blog and I thought about it then and since. When I started the blog it was to reach out to others like us, lost, confused and afraid, who hadn’t been given any direction or hope for their loved one and didn’t know what to do. But it soon became more than that: a way to document your musical career – something you hadn’t yet done yourself – and our life together. I thought it might be useful for when you want to know about our lives. And there’s no doubt in my mind that that’s what you’re doing: I can see it in you.
Whilst you lived a lot of your life in the public eye during your time as a professional musician, you’re a very private person. I’m not quite so reserved – quite happy to blab about myself – but since your injury everything I do every second of every day is concentrated on you. If I thought that anything would hurt or upset you I wouldn’t do it. You know me very well and, as our long relationship has proved, we give each-other the benefit of the doubt every time. So the blog, I’m sure, you’ll appreciate for what it is. I’m in danger of quoting that ‘Robin Hood’ song now…
We’re happy that you’re in the NRH. Of course it was frightening at first: new environment, new people, new regime. But seeing the way they look after you: the care that’s taken, their (seemingly) casual but precise attention, I am breathing more easily knowing that you’re in the best hands. They’ve made us feel welcome.
You are an amazing man. Already you have made steps forward with your breathing and, after a few days to recover from the relocation, you’re coming back to your pre-move awareness. Today your oxygen saturation levels were good enough for you to spend half an hour without extra oxygen.
Ritamary brought the guitar in last night so today I was able to play a few songs and you responded with an alertness and attention which was lovely to see. It’s been over a week since I was able to regale you with ‘Neon Moon’, ‘Still the One’ and ‘Love Me Tender’ but I got your full attention which was wonderful. After speaking to the music therapist in the NRH I realise we’ve been doing quite a bit in that regard just by instinct: however, seeing it done professionally will be a marvellous thing.
You know it’s tough being without you. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t wish that everything was different, that this had never happened, that life had stayed as it was. Sometimes the uncertainty feels too much to bear. But because it’s you I’ll bear it, I can be patient for you – not for anyone else, ever – but for you I can wait.
Today the nurses told me that you were ‘more awake’ when I was there, and I thought that was because I touch you, talk and sing to you, etc., but they said no, that when I left you with other visitors, you closed your eyes but when I came back you woke up. I’d love to think that’s true, that you know I’m there and so aware of you that you can’t help but be aware of me. You’re everything to me, Bob, and we’ve got many years ahead of us to spend together. Don’t forget that and don’t stop trying to come back to me. Please.