joining the club

A friend of mine just lost her husband of many years. For the last eight of those years, she was his caregiver as well as his wife. She retired a year or so ago, so I don't see her as much these days, but while she was still working she never seemed stressed out, she never complained, she always had a good attitude, even when work was unpleasant. When I first met my husband and was all googly-eyed with new love, she told me that love is wiping your husband's bottom because he can't. That has really stuck with me, and I hope that if and when my husband needs that kind of help that I can be as gracious as she was, and that in the meantime I can express my love in practical ways as well as verbally.

I have noticed a kinship among those who provide care for an unwell loved one. Nobody wants to join this club, and membership comes with a lot of dues. There is a shifting of priorities and an adjustment of expectations, whether it is a spouse or a child or a parent. Those who have not yet experienced this shift may not fully understand this alteration of one's life view, but I think most people eventually find themselves in this position. Your future suddenly looks very different from what you expected, and you are forced to pare your life down to the bare essentials. You find yourself learning to be less selfish, making decisions for the good of your loved one, not for yourself. You find out what is really important to you, not what would be nice to have, but what you can't live without. You discover your limits, and sometimes you discover that your limits can be stretched, and sometimes they cannot. You learn to take pleasure in the mundane, to be grateful for small blessings. You learn your faults. You struggle to find your way out of panic into acceptance and normalcy. You learn more about your faults, and try to accept them and move on.

There are other clubs that one joins when membership expires in this one. There's the widows' and widowers' club, the orphans' club and the grieving parents' club. Frankly, I'm hoping my membership is in good standing in the caregivers club for a long time.

Lost in Bruckner

Last night we performed Bruckner's eighth symphony, a mammoth work of four movements that lasts about an hour and a quarter. It felt like one of the best performances of my career--a few minor errors here and there on my part and elsewhere in the orchestra, but overall a fantastic, electrifying concert. The audience was our captive, seeming to hold their collective breath even between movements. When we finished, exhausted and sweaty, they rose to their feet shouting bravos, looking transported.

The piece is, according to Mario's interpretation, a searching for answers which do not immediately appear, but when hope is lost, the answer is revealed in a great triumph of ecstasy. This interpretation is linked to Bruckner's ardent Catholicism, his use of hymns to Mary, his almost mystical approach to religion. While I do not share these beliefs, I share the searching for answers and not finding them, losing hope, finding hope.

The orchestra itself is going through a period of loss--a member lost his wife a few weeks ago, others lost parents, our bass trombonist is retiring early for scary medical reasons. I think that these real life events push us as a group to instill more power into our music-making. Music is real--it has a tangible effect on humans. It can make us cry, laugh, unite, wonder. I feel that we transcended our daily grind approach to the job with last night's concert, and while I doubt that we can maintain that for long, I look forward to tonight.