I love little bundles, medium bags, large sacks … But mostly the mystery of what they could contain
Robert Richard Kairovicius
December 01 1955 – November 25 2018
Passed peacefully while in care at the Juravinski Cancer Hospital in Hamilton Ontario.
His original prognosis caused his life expectancy to be limited to LAST December 2017!!!
Yet, with dignity, humor and great determination he surpassed all of the odds and survived all of the treatments. We took it day by day, step, by every new, step.
However on Wednesday November 21 we had an unexpected emergency visit to the hospital, due to complications caused by his feeding tube. Luckily that evening he had stabilized and the complications were being remedied . Thursday he was in good spirits and looked very good. Friday he sounded great, as well as on Saturday. He was sleeping alot but we talked on and off through text and telephone. We thought that he would be home on Monday unless something unexpected occurred.
On Sunday morning, the nurses stated he experienced a sudden shortness of breath, and then peacefully stopped breathing within a few minutes. A very quick passing.
Robert had very firm orders that he did not wish to be resusitated if a need ever arose. So he passed as he wished: without prolonged pain, without being a burden, with his faculties intact and with great dignity.
In 1989 Robert was my first love and first public, and very real, relationship with a man. I am so honored that he chose to spend his last two years sharing the house with Chris May and I. I am so honored and grateful for friends and family who have supported us through this tumultuous time.
What remained constant through all of this, is my renewed belief that there is great beauty in life …. even while death continuously sits as a guest at the same table.
Bizarrely, my beloved Sister, Samm Stocker passed on this day five years ago. So Robert will have great company. Along with Geoffrey Haberman whose celebration of life I will be attending on December 03.
So … with a five fold kiss, I bid Robert adieu this morning and wished him blessings on his continued journey.
Bird calls , solo bird,
Perhaps he has an announcement.
yesterday I denied it.
Morning two, it is COOL.
Do I need a jacket?
He asks inside my head.
Later, I will decide, later, ask me later…
The morning glories are talking
Can I get a new lunch box for school?
You don’t go to school, he says inside my head.
Can’t we pretend I do? I say
out loud ,
inside my bed.
I could feel him smile.
What colour ? He asks.
Purple I squeal .
lifted his nonexistent brow.
wants an orange one,
he will be coming
So many lived
since this body was born.
Almost half a century of individual pursuits,
each one a life unto itself .
I was a small child living in THAT town.
I was a bigger child living in that town.
I was a lonely young child in that other town.
I was an adolescent faking my way through first experiences in those towns.
In that life I escaped to a city and stated who,
became who I wanted to be.
Said WHO I thought I ….
In this life I escaped that city, and this city told me who I am.
In this life I have found THE TRUTH.
In this town, I have found the truth …
Again …. Again, again.
The chyrsalids came to mind,
along with the cold
So cold it whined and squeaked
under my black booted feets.
My testicles receded deep inside,
as my tulips rested
… in seven weeks,
heads will reach and rise,
break the surface
of the earth
with much surprise .
Did I winter
The calalilies ????
Fuck …. No :(.
Then one day …
you look in the mirror
and state quietly …
“That old man looks alot like my Father.”
You mourn for a few seconds,
and then laugh ….
being your Father
is a good
All taking selfies
of our heads on pillows.
Sculpted in digital lights.
like after being embalmed,
after the makeup artist has painted
our last portrait.
Decomposition is alive and well
In the reality of life with no filters.
The Hippo is making
a forty year old potroast.
No, the Hippo is forty, the pot roast is Not.
It is his first, but forty years in the making, there are very few carrots . Plenty of potatoes and onions.
He is using my crock pot,
a surprise for me .
Worried because he’s unsure …
If he’s doing it right .
So he tells me, “there is a potroast”
I am touched.
So very very touched.
A Home gesture.
I say “it’s slow cooking,
Nothing can go wrong.
If it’s wrong it’s the meat
not you . Not your effort.”
We talk about carrots, onions …
Can of tomatoes ?
Use corn starch.
Vodka …. starch … potatoes ….
Then the silence where the casual subsides, the audio tide recedes.
The silent whispering NOW.
I ask how the Walrus is doing.
“He’s upstairs sleeping.”
I tell the Hippo,
“The Walrus may need a blood transfusion.”
“Catscan on the
Walrus is 63.
I am rescued…
the fan buzzes above me
forcing out the cool air.
Turqouis and orange balloons bob, held to the ground, Imprisoned with invisible string.
I want to cut them
to their freedom.
They could laugh at their captors,
taunt them…. as they bobbed up and up and up to the Sheraton lobby ceiling .
a discovered new entrapment.
A new entrapment, a new freedom.
They would be held there for days …
A week ….
Then deflate ….
Then expire back
down to the floor
Gravity is our prison.
Not so much
A bouquet not to be plucked
from the ground.
The perfection of the trefoil.
Whispers from the ancestors,
the Isle of Man.
Archetypes and memories everwhere…