Love in the Time of Covid

I was quite pleased with the above title. However, it is only a hook, as this blog entry cannot possibly reflect in depth the novel I borrowed it from (Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez). And nor should it. However, If your imagination and curiosity was immediately piqued by the title, or if you are familiar with the novel, you could be excused for thinking this blog entry would be a rip-roaring, relentless, risqué bodice ripper from a racy raconteur. If that is the case, and you were looking forward to it immensely, then it is going to sorely disappoint you (unless you are a massive fan of alliteration, in which case the preceding sentence will probably have made you want to go and lie down in a darkened room for a while). Unlike its much more illustrious titular cousin, my blog’s content is not - I hope - a farrago of young love; betrayal; heat (in both senses); shipwrecks; narrative as deconstruction; sickness as a metaphor for love; or fear of death (not directly anyway - although it might attract a wider readership if it did.

My lexical ramblings do relate to choleric circumstances and conditions in one important sense however. I write this at the end of November 2020, many months after the arrival of a virus that has killed millions worldwide; brought danger, fear, isolation and suffering for millions more; introduced a slew (in the sense of turning violently or uncontrollably) of rules and regulations and testing processes that change regularly according to what mood the politicians are in and can vary wildly from country to country in our “United” Kingdom. Holidays have become a bet rather than an expectation or a right. But at least over Christmas the politicians are gift wrapping the restrictions for a few days and making them pan-UK so it makes the task of understanding easier, even people like me whose concentration and information retention are becoming increasingly difficult. Add to that a pandemic holiday for good behaviour and rose tinted spectacles and it’s even more peachy. Or nuttier, if that’s your preferred Christmas snack.

I’m well aware that the previous paragraph or the title itself have little or nothing to do with Alzheimer’s. There is a link, however, between families and vineyards (just trust me on this one) and this can be grafted on to a pertinent analysis of Alzheimer’s in the context of relationships. But I agree it it needs some context first.

Since March, and as a resident in England (I can barely get my apathetic brain cells to understand the restrictions that impact us as a family directly let alone those for other nations), I have had to at least try to understand the rules. This is easier said than done in my case. At various times I am encouraged to stay inside my house except where and when the law allows me out to exercise my body, brain cells, or social conscience. I’m not working, so I couldn’t use that as an excuse for a drive when it was outlawed (unless your initials are DC, bless his Mum). I think I can use bubbles now to support vulnerable relatives who need to blow them through that little round plastic hole as a way to relax and destress. I can also make visits to a vet (I’d rather see a doctor but hey it’s a make do and mend environment we live in). One of the three adults currently living in our house can make a bubble with one adult in another house apparently, until boredom, resentment or outright enmity sets in, the bubble is popped and you have to blow another one. You cannot meet people in a private garden, unless you live with the owners or have formed a support bubble with them, or you put up a sign outside saying “Open To The Public”. This can only be done where there isn’t is an R in the month as this is too dangerous apparently (the R factor seems to be mentioned frequently in TV Covid reports as the harbinger of catastrophe; I still don’t know what it actually represents). We must also get used to socially distancing ourselves from practically the entire population of the UK - no problem there. In fact, people have been doing it to me all my life. 2 metres is manageable, if a little close: I would be happy with 2 miles in some cases. As for tiers - I think some algorithm was used to decide which areas were lower tier and which were in the higher brackets, but density of population was clearly not one of the factors. I suspect it came down to Boris not understanding “the science”, getting bored, and the Cabinet resorted to blindfolds, a map of the UK and pins. Which one was the donkey? hard to tell. Result: not so much ‘tiers’ as ’tears’, and very stroppy constituents.

I jest. But sometimes a sense of humour can help get you through dark times as we grapple with this indifferent, socially-undistanced, tactile, pathologically hateful micro-organism that is Covid 19. As in Garcia Marquez’ novel, this virus has changed the way we engage with, approach, deepen and protect love; it teaches us how to cope with loss and heartbreak and the perils of being old or vulnerable; it brings out the best and the worse in humanity; it induces heroism and courage as well as crime and selfishness. In short, the Covid era is a metaphor for society. Life, death, love, dependency, bravery, fear, falsehoods, promises: they go together, sanitised hand in sanitised hand. The death of my stepfather in October was not caused by Covid, but his experience in hospital and at home was not one of a functioning system, but rather one where care and a system at breaking point were dancing to a tune that no one had heard before and whose steps were unfathomable. Covid was an accomplice, not the gang leader. Watching a relative die at home (painlessly, thankfully) was something I had never experienced before, and it just added to the sense of helplessness in the face of something we cannot meaningfully define, much less fight.

It does however make me aware of relationships and how important these are. I am the first to acknowledge that I am a very lucky man. Alzheimer’s will be part of my life (and my family’s) for 10-12 years if the prognosis is accurate, and one way of dealing with my predicted and truncated sell by date is to look around me and be mindful of all the positives in my life, past, present and future, and graft them onto my day to day moods, aspirations and activities. As a starter I would like to paint a canvas of my family life. 25 years ago I married a wonderful, loving and caring lady; I have two amazing sons and an amazing dog (the boys just shade it in the being amazing category, but it’s a close call*). I have also retired from work (even though I am still technically an employee - don’t even ask me to explain that one); and we live in a lovely part of the country with walks and beautiful countryside all around us. During and despite the lockdowns and my illness and other daily inconveniences and restrictions, my relationships have strengthened rather than wilted. I am acutely aware however, that this has not been the experience for millions of people globally. In the UK hundreds of thousands of people have suffered cruelly during this sinister episode, as finances, lockdowns, endemic abuse, redundancies and money issues created or accelerated domestic fault lines. I fervently hope that lives and loves can be rebuilt, reshaped, recovered or resolved, in places and spaces where the virus has sown destruction, fear, penury and misery.

* I jest - honest

As far as domestic life is concerned, the Covid pandemic has been at worst a bane and at best a backdrop as we tried to celebrate key milestones in our marriage with friends and relatives. Covid was leering from the sidelines as we passed two birthday milestones in late July (my wife turned 50 and I turned 53 two days later). Come August, it was the turn of the Glorious 12th, which for me and my wife has nothing to do with wearing tweed and honouring the annual ritualised pleasure of shooting helpless grouse, but will always be important to us as the day we got married in 1995. 2020 therefore marks our silver anniversary. In all those years as a couple there was never anything that eroded or contradicted the vows and commitments we made to each other on all those years ago. Put simply, there is nothing (major) to grouse about*. Yes, social plans became moveable feasts in terms of what was celebrated when and how, as we sought to march in step with Covid and the resultant lockdowns and restrictions imposed by the government. Birthday celebrations were much the same as in previous years i.e. quietly domestic, but we also managed, despite the pandemic and its associated regulations, to celebrate our birthdays and anniversary in two sparkling events, one for just the two of us, and another that included our sons and my wife’s sisters and their families. Read on…

* Rubbish joke. I apologise unreservedly.

To celebrate 25 years of being in love and wanting to spend the rest of our lives together, we had booked to return to the Three Choirs Vineyard, where we had stayed five years previously, again to celebrate our anniversary. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the name “Three Choirs”, it refers to an annual music festival, hosted in rotation between the choirs of the three cathedrals of the counties of Gloucestershire, Herefordshire and Worcestershire. We (OK, my wife) even managed to make a booking for the actual anniversary date this year - and any of you reading this will be aware that that is no mean feat given the sinking sands of events and emotional gatherings (see earlier rant).

So we counted ourselves extremely lucky to be driving down through Gloucestershire to this wonderful location, although the blazing sun - 33° at its zenith - was a challenge as well as a blessing! Given we could not get into our accommodation until later in the day, we drove first to Newent, at the edge of the Forest of Dean. Oddly, given that we have lived in Gloucestershire for many years now, it was the first time we had ever paid it a visit. We spent several happy hours wandering around this pretty, if petite, market town, which boasts a number of historical buildings and other small ‘local’ shops (most of which were closed, sadly, because of the virus). The day continued to smoulder balefully, and we sunned ourselves beside a lake in a park, eating biscuits and ice cream, before heading off mid afternoon to Three Choirs as the hours of our anniversary grew shorter. We were booked into the same lodge we’d occupied five years previously, at the foot of the gently sloping terraces of mathematically and socially distanced vines with a small pond (or lake?) opposite. The lodge was now bathed in fading but magical light, although the skies were starting to turn a gunmetal grey, which made the heat even more punishing.

As a surprise for me, and a memorable present to us both on our significant milestone, my wife had bought a wide-framed photograph of Three Cliffs Bay on the Gower Peninsular, an area we know well, courtesy of K’s sister and family who live in Swansea and who we visit regularly. The picture was taken with a wide angle lens at low tide as dusk was falling. It is one of our favourite beaches: the colours of the clouds, the vast expanse of sand, beach, rocks and promontories; the serpentine, constantly shifting channels of retreating sea and sand towards oblivion, quietly confident of regeneration in twelve, infinitesimal hours; the absence of human activity or presence at this particular moment in time: all this contributed to a moving(in both senses) snapshot of the moment as well as the sempiternal. This wonderful photograph now hangs above our sofa, and is almost as long as the sofa itself!

The wonderful day was completed by a meal in the vineyard’s restaurant. During the afternoon there had been a significant shift in the weather. After the heat and sunshine, it grew rapidly darker later in the afternoon and a sudden, savage wind blew in. The first drops of rain were pattering down as we walked up to the restaurant, and it was torrential when we left. The unfriendly weather lasted all and into the following day. It was damp and dismal, but we had a lovely walk along the banks of the Wye from Tintern Abbey despite the heavy rain, followed by a lovely meal in Ross on Wye before driving home. The sunshine; the vineyard; the restaurant; the lodge; the pond; the vines; the Three Cliffs Bay picture; the meal; the Wye valley - in short, the anniversary in the round - renewed and deepened the vows we made to each other back in 1995.

I’d like to make a small creative detour at this point, drawing on the experience of spending a short time in a vineyard; holidays in France and sampling their wines; developing an interest in their production methods as well as the end product; and an interest in wine generally. I would like to extend to human relationships the characteristics of grapes, tradition, seasons, growth, ageing, grafting, fruit, traditions, and weather that all contribute and reflect that quintessential, peculiarly French sense of terroir, that slippery concept that elevates a bottle of wine to something that denotes a cultural artefact rather than just a viticultural one (and is worth drinking, naturally).

In the human sense it can, I think, connote love; hard work; solicitude; individuals growing together in a stable, natural and supportive environment, in harmony with their surroundings; a network based on closeness, tradition and regeneration. As far as my illness is concerned, this human terroir will not prevent, arrest or cure Alzheimer’s, but an applied concept of human terroir can act as a safety net; a source of peace & quietude (most of the time; see below); safety (again, context is everything); in short, an example of ties that do not necessarily bind, but rather operate as invisible, emotional elastic that pulls gently across the distances of modern living, family duties, and work.

KFest in August 2020 was a shining example of this wider interpretation of terroir: three sisters and their families coming together to celebrate my wife’s 50th birthday, and also our silver wedding anniversary. Once again Covid appropriated the job of events manager in a negative way, but K’s tenacity was equal to the challenge and the celebration date was decided upon, and took place without too many hiccups. The sun played a walk-on role, as did the rather strong wind; but high spirits, a gazebo, the celebratory atmosphere, good food (yours truly contributed an enormous paella) and a speech (which came as a complete surprise) were the highlights. From a sartorial perspective our boys dressed up like Hawaiian gangsters in floral short-sleeved shirts; the youngest also sported a Blues Brothers hat; and one of the cousins wore a top with long, sparkling glitter threads streaming down. Actually, I think it may have been alive, as it was clearly moulting: for weeks afterwards in the garden there were ubiquitous, delightful slivers of rainbow colours to remind us of that day; visible echos; refulgent memories of a day in the sun rather than in the shadow of a pandemic. We have pictures of cousins standing at the end of the garden next to the sunflowers and looking out at the view across the fields to the village on the hill opposite. I can still picture my wife in her long flowing dress with a peacock-like feather design and a simple garland in her hair, smiling happily on her special day. There was laughter ands face-painting; even our dog had a ribbon around her neck. Sunflowers beamed; the new greenhouse was admired; the cake duly, ritually arrived; multi-coloured lights came to life as darkness fell; warm hats and jumpers allowed the night to welcome the darkness rather than drive them indoors.

Back to the surprise speech. My wife began by saying that she wanted to write and deliver one, even though she is best described as shy in a group setting, even one where her sisters, nieces, nephews, husband and sons are the only guests (or perhaps that makes it more difficult?). She was characteristically nervous about it as a result, but equally determined to deliver it, as part of the celebrations for her 50th birthday and our anniversary. It was made easier of course by the fact that she was delivering it to a collection of close relatives so it was not a hostile atmosphere (the heckling was brief and good-natured). She started by discussing how important loyalty, values and relationships were to her, and also to the people gathered in our garden, she hoped. She talked about our anniversary and its importance to both of us; about the highlights and sadlights [sic] of our marriage, especially the loss of both her parents; our wonderful sons (including their baby and childhood years, which were magical despite the chronic sleep deprivation); the holidays we had together as a family and also with Kate’s Dad and her sisters in the early years; the boys growing up; holidays just the two of us when the boys were older; sharing K’s and my own love of walking in the mountains. K. also spoke fondly and lyrically about me, but I won’t share the details as a) I don’t think this is the place, and b) it’s embarrassing so I am invoking my rights as editor not to publish the copy!

K talked also of her two sisters and their families and the numerous holidays we spent together when the children were growing up. The sisters make a group of 3 but also a larger unit of 4 with their respective families; and together we all make a unit of 12. Arranging to meet up is a nightmare in the Covid era, but it continues to be nourished for the future, and this reaffirms the depth and meaning of get togethers in the past. The shared fulcrum for this group of relations is of course marriage. I remember a conversation about weddings with my brother, and he was genuinely surprised to learn that the three weddings were all first marriages. This is not a value-judgement on anyone, much less society as a whole, but I personally feel that I am very lucky to have a strong marriage. It of course goes deeper than just luck, however, as this excerpt from my wife’s speech demonstrates (she borrowed it from the wedding ceremony of a friend of hers, but it resonated deeply with her own thoughts):

“A wedding is a statement of commitment between two people; the most solemn vow that two people can make to each other. At its heart it is a private ceremony between two people in love, intent on affirming that love; but there is also an act of public witness, a recognition of that commitment, watched by family and friends and the wider community, a wish on behalf of the bride and groom that others can bear witness to this commitment. Not just to witness the ceremony, but also to be part witness the reaffirmation of this potent symbol, stretching back through parents and relatives as a historical record and a cord that links into the future as well as the past.”

The above text and the wider context of KFest itself, are, I believe, elements of human terroir. This event, and the wider skeins of human terroir that it represents, are reasons why Alzheimer’s, frightening, annoying and life-shortening though it is, can be managed and controlled, and need not determine how I should live my life. I want to spend as much time as possible with friends and family and enjoy myself as much as possible, and taste and savour as much of life as possible. I can do this because of human terroir. To restate what I wrote above: it connotes “love; hard work; solicitude; individuals growing together in a stable, natural and supportive environment, in harmony with their surroundings; a network based on closeness, tradition and regeneration”.

I’m very lucky to have all that; both now and going forward, I hope.

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PS. To use the politicians’ phrase, I often “misremember” dates and events because of my illness. When writing my blogs, memories merge and overlap, sometimes creating a blend of memories . At the moment, it’s important to me that the content is true so my wife helps proof reads my blogs and provides the clarity

PPS. I said at the start that I liked the snappy title. Unfortunately, so did a lot of other people in the Cloud (although not as a blog title), as a web search revealed the other day. So it is not a unique title - but I assumed it was when I thought of it back in August, when I started writing this (! - oh, how I suffer for my art). That said, I’m fairly sure no one used as it as an entry point for a blog about Alzheimer’s.

PPPS. This is a very long posting. I will keep the next one short. Promise. If you’ve stuck with it I’m very grateful.

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