Retirement rhythms

I retired completely in January. Ahhhh. 

Then, a pandemic dropped by. Aghhhhh!

I’d been easing into retirement over the past few years—retiring from patient care as I turned 65. Then working three-quarter time at my medical geek passions as designer-teacher-researcher-writer. Sandy and I had enjoyed the newfound freedom of no more weekend work or being on-call, now able to enjoy unlimited 3-day weekends. However, it took a bit of adjustment in the Rhythm of Closeness to balance our personal private time with the-two-of-us-together time. “It’s nice to have you around more, but NOW?! I had plans of my own.”

The pandemic required a new set of rules for the Rhythm of Closeness. Speaking for myself, and apparently for others, I can get a bit stir-crazy hunkered down indoors. Frustration easily finds our favorite targets, whom we married a while back. But over the years, we had adjusted to children with the accompanying disrupted sleep, constant need, and untimely illness. We WILL adjust to this. 

I had been riding my bike to work the past dozen years in all kinds of dry weather.  It was my multi-purpose morning exercise, mental health moment, communing with nature, and commuting to work. I had continued the cycling on my retirement journey, with stops at the coffee shops on my days off. Tuesday became my day to meet friends for coffee, or lunch, or our twice-a-month evening men’s group. With the pandemic, all of that required safety adjustments.  

Can we get some help here?

Heeding the calls for service to retired health professionals, I considered ways to apply my skills, but away from the personal risk of the patient care environment. Contact tracers! We needed contact tracers at our local health department. My offer was accepted with glee. I did my online training to learn the difference between isolation (the sick) and quarantine (the exposed who appear well), and joined the daily 8 AM health department Zoom calls as the medical expert of the hour. I could ride to the coffee shop, get my order before 8, sit outside on the patio, and join the COVID-19 team Zoom call. Eventually, I realized I could get back on the bike listening on Zoom, on my phone, on mute, waiting to respond if I was needed. The team knew it would take me about 20 seconds to pull over and unmute to respond. What a sweet combination of service, fitness, nature, and mental health.

How’s the family?

Our sons are scattered across time zones. Stuart, our oldest, works for Riot Games (maker of the video game League of Legends, and others) in Hong Kong where he’s been for 5+ years. He has a girlfriend, Dan, who we adore. They were able to come to Columbia for the solar eclipse in August 2017. We can do FaceTime calls with some coordination, and Sandy messages him often. Scott, the middle son, lives in Columbia in a house that Stuart still owns, so he likes the landlord. Scott’s splitting his time between work at a local book distributor and taking online classes in the information technology realm. He’s at our place a lot, so we each have two people to hug. Mark, the youngest, works in New York City at home now doing video production work for a small company that sells health and wellness products. We managed to squeeze in a trip to see his comedy improv class performance (think “recital”) in January, just before the shit hit the fan. 

Sandy will have some words to say for herself, but I’ll just say that she’s retired, too. Her empathetic heart has been busy and burdened by the suffering around us. She is my best teacher, having to adjust her lesson plans because of the pandemic. Her class can get rowdy. 

There has been loss—more of us experience it each passing week. My sister, Lori Belden Hainz, died in Saint Louis at age 60 in April after a lung transplant for severe lung disease (pulmonary fibrosis with pulmonary hypertension) as a result of a life-long version of scleroderma. The last few years were a quite a challenge for her and her family. She had such great support from her husband Scott and my wife Sandy, who was like a sister to her. We had a small celebration of life weeks later with our masks and sanitizer. There was Facebook-Live streaming for those who could not travel safely or fit in the limited venue space. 

——

Consider this a holiday letter. 

It’s been years since Sandy and I sent one. For a while, we still got them from most of our old friends Those letters tailed off except for the most hardy and dependable of letter writers. To you we are grateful. For the others with whom we have lost touch (except for Facebook, where I seldom tread), please forgive us. We forgive you. We love you. 

Jeff (mostly) and Sandy Belden

My father died about a year ago. I believe I did the grieving that would give meaning to his loss and allow me to move on in life. Lately, he appears at my side when I least expect it.

I should have stopped. 

Just a week ago. It was late at night, driving home from a movie, nary a car in sight. The last stoplight just turned yellow. I could make it by speeding up just a bit. The light turned red in the last few feet. The police car I had not noticed behind me could easily see the color change reflected off the car's white roof.

The young officer, a woman, was kind in her directness, "I stopped you for running that red light". I didn't have to squirm through a gradual confession. I gave her my ID and insurance card and she returned to her car.

Faster than us

As I sat waiting for what seemed a long time, I recalled a time a few years ago when I was driving with my father (with dementia) back from a visit to his sister Alyce in Illinois. This was one of several meaningful trips to visit the people he loved, and the towns that shaped his life (where he was born, graduated high school, got married, and raised his family). I wanted to make those trips while he was still able.

Driving around St. Louis on an outer bypass on a dark, quiet Sunday night we were stopped for speeding. Not that fast, but I had not noticed this was a "work zone" (empty now) with a stiffer penalty. The officer was a kind black man, who only gave me a warning ticket (ironic to me now, having had several black male friends relate their frequent experiences of being stopped for driving while black). But during that lonely wait while he made his report, my father helpfully/unhelpfully kept repeating "The other cars were going faster than us. We weren't going fast." I wanted him to just be quiet and not get us in deeper trouble by antagonizing the officer with his unfiltered comments. I screamed to myself "Dad! Shut up!", but I mustered kinder words, "Dad, please be quiet. I was wrong. I was speeding".

I never dreamed I would recall that moment with wistful tenderness. My father had moments earlier expressed deep appreciation to me about making the trip to see Alyce and other family, and how much it meant to him. That was priceless.

So this ticket, which I have paid, put my father at my side again. That was also priceless.

This photo reminds me of a lesson about savoring a moment. We had high hopes. They were exceeded beyond our wildest dreams. And it took very little more than to open our eyes and be present. The memories of joy and satisfaction warm me. 

About 6 years ago, widowed for a year, away from his home of 60 years, my father enjoyed a little core family reunion that we, his children, staged. The aim was to get Bill and his sole surviving sibling, Alyce, together with his children and my wife to enjoy a weekend while we still could. 

We went for a walk at nearby Ballard Nature Center. Wildflowers bloomed. A tree frog perched atop a post. The air clear and inviting. Filming as I trailed our little group, I saw my father pause to look around and savor the little wonders all around us. In this photo, we sat — allowing the wonder and sunshine to soak in. That's one lesson I take from that day. 

We may have some disappointment today. Hopes aren't met. Expectations were too high. But let us not miss the little wonders. Small blossoms. 

Today, I woke to the dawn chorus. I'll hike with some dear friends before the summer heat sets in. We'll walk in worship of the wonders of this world. Hearts will be open.  Allowing the little wonders.

I came across a photo I don't remember taking. Of a nascent loss of a loved one. My mother, Iris, lies very quiet in her hospice hospital bed in the darkly-paneled living room. Just now, I'm tempted to call it the dying room, but hospice helps us see these last days as living to the fullest. Meager fullness perhaps, but none the sweeter. 

My wife and my sister sit at her side, quietly attentive, supporting one another with their presence. A generous presence. Unflinching. Unblinking. Steadfast.

Two men are in the scene, standing some small distance back, attentive in their own way. Lost in strategy. I am one, behind the lens, composing this compact drama delicately unfolding. Witnessing with the photographer's eye, capturing deftly. 

Across the room is my father standing in his undershirt about to speak. His face is a mixture of guarded concern, a bit lost in his own home, and casting about for a way forward. 

In the coming days, we, his family will guide him to the funeral home, to the church, and to the cemetery. A week from now, he will start his daily sojourn afoot to the graveside to remember his Iris. A few months later, leave his home of 60 years to live nearer to us. And within a few years, as his capacity for memory erodes, this loss of his beloved Iris will be a forgotten loss.