This entry is going to break from norm and get personal.
Rogue Machine Theatre's Three Views of the Same Object was a cathartic experience that made me bawl. It's a harsh look at aging and how many relationships deteriorate as their bodies do. It's a realistic portrayal of the anger, the helplessness, and the hurt of old age.
Moreover, it's a reflection of what's currently happening to my family.
My grandmother has had cancer since 2007, and she's fought it every step of the way. She's won battles, reclaimed her hair, climbed the Great Wall of China - only to get it back and get ready for Round 2 ... and Round 3.
This will be the last round.
There are very few options available to her at this point, and the treatment she's currently undergoing is harsher than before. The treament is meant only to keep her alive as long as possible, as the cancer isn't going to go away. The chemo this time has made her sick and miserable and angry. It's also taking a toll on the entire family, especially my grandfather, as she is his world.
He sits stubbornly by her side, tending to her when she can't move, holding her hand in his. When she does walk, his hand never lets go of hers. And he's so worried for her that he's keeping her like a princess locked away in a tower, as if she were made of porcelain and could break upon touch.
I'm certain that when I lose her, I will lose them both - that is, if he doesn't go first. At 91, my grandfather is still fit and perfectly healthy, with all his wits about him, but he proclaimed a few months ago when the cancer got angry again that he wasn't going to make it past 92 - whether that was with or without his wife.
I dread visiting them now. Not because I'm scared of seeing her sick, but because the quality of the conversation has become so negative that I'm having difficulty retaining the happy memories of my grandmother. I have to coax her into talking about our travel adventures or our collective family memories to hear something positive.
Old age is ugly. Frustrating. Demanding.
The sickness has infiltrated everyone's lives. My mother lives in limbo, unable to forge a life of her own because she's constantly drawn back to take care of her parents. She's put her life - and her marriage - on hold, waiting in denial for the inevitable.
At one point in the play, one of the character remarks how envious she is of people with Alzheimer's. The already shocking statement becomes more powerful when you've actually experienced what Alzheimer's is. My great-grandmother had it. I remember the typical scene of my family members constantly asking her if she recognized us, if she knew who we were. But I also remember seeing dried up poop wiped in the window curtains, up and down the staircase. I would've never thought of dementia as a blessing.
But when you think about all the people you have loved and lost, all the things you can no longer do, the places you can no longer go ... well, then it starts to make some sense.
As my grandmother turns the page to her last chapter, I begin to assume the role I play in my family - the youthful sunshine that comes into their lives, lights up their days, and lets them live vicariously through my discoveries, my accomplishments, allowing them to forget for a moment how dark everything is now. I cannot break down before them, or else they will all fall like dominoes.
So if I can't cry in real life, I'll cry when I see Three Views again. And again.
Rogue Machine Theatre's Three Views of the Same Object was a cathartic experience that made me bawl. It's a harsh look at aging and how many relationships deteriorate as their bodies do. It's a realistic portrayal of the anger, the helplessness, and the hurt of old age.
Moreover, it's a reflection of what's currently happening to my family.
My grandmother has had cancer since 2007, and she's fought it every step of the way. She's won battles, reclaimed her hair, climbed the Great Wall of China - only to get it back and get ready for Round 2 ... and Round 3.
This will be the last round.
There are very few options available to her at this point, and the treatment she's currently undergoing is harsher than before. The treament is meant only to keep her alive as long as possible, as the cancer isn't going to go away. The chemo this time has made her sick and miserable and angry. It's also taking a toll on the entire family, especially my grandfather, as she is his world.
He sits stubbornly by her side, tending to her when she can't move, holding her hand in his. When she does walk, his hand never lets go of hers. And he's so worried for her that he's keeping her like a princess locked away in a tower, as if she were made of porcelain and could break upon touch.
I'm certain that when I lose her, I will lose them both - that is, if he doesn't go first. At 91, my grandfather is still fit and perfectly healthy, with all his wits about him, but he proclaimed a few months ago when the cancer got angry again that he wasn't going to make it past 92 - whether that was with or without his wife.
I dread visiting them now. Not because I'm scared of seeing her sick, but because the quality of the conversation has become so negative that I'm having difficulty retaining the happy memories of my grandmother. I have to coax her into talking about our travel adventures or our collective family memories to hear something positive.
Old age is ugly. Frustrating. Demanding.
The sickness has infiltrated everyone's lives. My mother lives in limbo, unable to forge a life of her own because she's constantly drawn back to take care of her parents. She's put her life - and her marriage - on hold, waiting in denial for the inevitable.
At one point in the play, one of the character remarks how envious she is of people with Alzheimer's. The already shocking statement becomes more powerful when you've actually experienced what Alzheimer's is. My great-grandmother had it. I remember the typical scene of my family members constantly asking her if she recognized us, if she knew who we were. But I also remember seeing dried up poop wiped in the window curtains, up and down the staircase. I would've never thought of dementia as a blessing.
But when you think about all the people you have loved and lost, all the things you can no longer do, the places you can no longer go ... well, then it starts to make some sense.
As my grandmother turns the page to her last chapter, I begin to assume the role I play in my family - the youthful sunshine that comes into their lives, lights up their days, and lets them live vicariously through my discoveries, my accomplishments, allowing them to forget for a moment how dark everything is now. I cannot break down before them, or else they will all fall like dominoes.
So if I can't cry in real life, I'll cry when I see Three Views again. And again.
I really enjoyed Three Views, even though its subject matter was so tough. I have an old friend that is currently enduring cancer that has metastasized through her body. She's gone through a round of chemo and doesn't think that she'll be able to go through it again.
ReplyDeleteSo now she's beginning to give away items to people she loves to make sure that they have something to remember her by.
Patti, I will always remember you.
And Three Views will give me just a slice of the frustration/anger/sadness you must feel in having to endure this.
What I learned from this show is that sometimes it takes someone or something else to show us our own truth, our own reality. You experienced that before with The Children, and I definitely projected in this one. I'm so happy that the theatre can give us that space to confront ourselves.
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