Alicia, my sister-in-law’s adopted daughter, faithfully phoned me up today, mid-afternoon, with the results of her research. First, there is plenty of room in the family plot for my dear departed husband. Certainly enough for his funerary urn. (I’m expecting there will be enough room for me when I go in 20 years—but all in good time.) Second, it’s prohibitively expensive to ship a corpse from New York to Boston. $10,000 was the quoted rate. That no doubt means a private hearse driver, city-to-city, to the crematorium or funeral home. So it would be cheaper to cremate in town, and then ship or take the ashes up to a family member near Mount Auburn. Thus I must find a local crematorium, or funeral home with crematorium connections, to do the job.

I get back to bed, anxious and sleep-deprived still, and thumb through the Yale Alumni Magazine and the NYAC’s Winged Foot house organ. No funeral directors in the YAM, but there is one in the NYAC periodical, and what do you know? It’s the president of Frank E. Campbell’s. No doubt he is familiar with the name of my illustrious spouse. I shall plead poverty and incapacity, and ask for his help in getting the body cremated. An NYAC discount, perhaps? I’m hoping to keep that under $1000. $795 seems the rock-bottom floor for this sort of thing.

Put that on my agenda for tomorrow, after I’ve sent in the Bowden review to Greg.

Slept a few hours in the evening, under the influence of vodka but no Trazodone. Just ate some microwaved potatoes. Gearing up to finish the Bowden piece.

I remembered I had all those puppets, and put two of them on pillows, on Michael’s side of the bed. I shall never be lonely again. You’d be surprised how normal it all seems now.

6:37 am. I used to feel bad when Moki was beside me and I’d awaken in the wee hours and couldn’t get back to sleep so played with my laptops and blogs and Twitter and such, and he’d complain when it was around this time. I so miss that now. He was still doing it 2-3 weeks ago before the Reaper closed in.

Some bright spots appeared Tuesday evening (it is now Wednesday morning). Phone call (Moki’s phone) from nephew Timothy, and then another from Alicia, A.T.’s adopted daughter with whom I had some unfortunate run-ins 25 years ago. Tim is very eager to help with funeral or memorial arrangements, and so is Alicia. I also learn that Moki might be able to be buried in the family plot at Mount Auburn. Moki seemed to believe that too, but we never followed up on that months ago because he was still alive. I loosely would suggest that we both be buried in my ancestral cemetery, or one of them, up in Saratoga Springs. Never really looked into that either.

Alicia’s going to contact a funeral director she knows and look into what arrangements might be made to ship the body or ashes up to the Cambridge area.

A few phone calls today. I left a message with Sherry Babb, one of those accounts that translate your voicemail message into text (not a bad idea, but I wouldn’t trust it; I’d text to begin with), and she phoned me up on 0209 landline an hour or two later. Apologized for not having got back sooner; she’s at work in some conference in Texas. With that out of the way, she asked how Michael was. I said, “Michael is dead.” We then had a tear-fest and she asked the usual questions. How did he die? Where was he when he died? She was appalled to learn I woke up to find his corpse beside me three days ago. (But Sherry never married; it probably never occurred to her this is how these things happen.)

And then: Have I made any plans for a funeral, etc. No, not at all, I can’t handle it, and he’d want as little as possible, didn’t wish to leave footprints, a simple cremation and then be best forgotten.

Sherry was one of Michael’s oldest friends, at least among those I knew. I first met her in January 1986. She’d just returned to Manhattan after some time in rehab and resting at her brother’s in Florida. Short blond hair, wore a bright red turtleneck. A year earlier, the city marshall had come by to evict her. She’d made a good living, but spent most of her money on a fierce cocaine habit. For some years I believe she worked for Ahmet Ertegun at Atlantic Records. I have a vague memory of her telling us she was on the floor, sniffing lines off her coffee table, upon which a big candle burned in her otherwise darkened apartment…but maybe I am mixing up her story with the setting in which she told it: there was rather dim lighting in Michael’s apartment since he had his track-lighting dimmers turned down. After that I next saw her in early 1998, when I returned from California. Now her hair was longer, she lived in distant Yorkville, and she would soon adopt a Chinese baby. It was a fad in her circle of middle-aged unmarried women.

1999. M took the flash shot. S and I look pained.

When Sherry rang I was on the phone (Moki’s) to Mimi Collich, whose maiden name was Mary Alice Burns. We’d crossed paths before, at her father Dan Burns’s funeral in Winchester, but I don’t remember her from that; I remember being messaged on Ancestry-dot-com 2-1/2 years ago when she found a photo of Dan’s father in my family tree. I suppose I am an aunt by marriage. Mimi was then trying to get over a deeply debilitating case of Covid-19. Damaged her all over and she still finds it hard to get about. She tried to phone me several times yesterday, again today. Seems Jamie gave the word to his mother A.T., and A.T. called Mimi, and they both cried together on the phone. She lives way out in Bucks County someplace…weirdly she remembers me telling her that I used to take the bus down to New Hope, PA. I must have told her that I’d go there to have my hair done when Dana stopped coming to NYC for her dwindling client base. (Actually I took the bus to Lambertville, and crossed the bridge to the town of New Hope, and then found my way to the salon. Dana may have worked out of two different ones. One may have been AKA, which looks familiar from its pictures, and another one with a Cat in its name. I always had a long wait for the bus back from Lambertville. The stop was at a gas station just over the bridge. They had a Live Bait vending machine there. I once bought a container of mealworms to bring back to my turtle.)

After Mimi and Sherry it was time to phone A.T., full of tearful condolences. She went on about how she’d loved Michael very dearly but they didn’t get along much of the time. Michael was spoilt. Too dependent on his mother. I told her Moki had always told me the same thing.

Now I’m remembering how five or six days ago I was reading a long memoir by David Foster Wallace’s onetime fiancée, Gale Walden, in the LRB. I couldn’t finish it. The guy died, killed himself, and Gale took forever to get over that. Meantime Moki was next to me in the bed here, rapidly expiring. I put the thing down right there on the bed, and finished it early yesterday morning, once the body was gone and I’d dealt with the cops and the medical examiners.

I finally got some sleep last night and slept through to ten a.m. with the help of some vodka and a full Trazodone.

Today I went to St Paul the Apostle’s on a cold, blustery afternoon. Said a rosary on the way, last decade of it in the church. Last Friday was the day I discovered Moki’s mother’s rosaries in the little basket, and slipped one into his hand, which completely eluded him as he himself was slipping out permanently. I then put it in my quilted Barbour jacket’s inside pocket, and cried on the way to St. Patrick’s. And there the rosary sits still. I also began a new novena today, in a welter of tears and self-pity.

I’m going to have hard going for a long time.

Evening. I still think Moki is over there on the other side of the bed. When I went to the kitchen and came back to the bedroom, it was odd not seeing him there.

I stripped and remade the bed today, using clean sheets and the old comforter, which I washed a week or two ago, and the new waterproof mattress cover. I sanitized the befouled mattress as well as I could, put a big towel on the foul Moki side. Bed is very comfortable right now.

Bought a rotisserie chicken and cranberry sauce, and a blue smoothie early afternoon. I hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. Davrola, who lost her husband 9 months ago (Twitter) says she survived on bananas, yoghurt and canned soup. Coincidentally I received three cans of Progresso split pea soup today from Amazon. I don’t recall ordering it.

I haven’t slept since that little nap yesterday afternoon. I thought eating the chicken would help me. Now I’m thinking I must go out and buy a pint.

Some doctor was supposed to call me tonight, from the CME. External examination of the corpse today. I called Jamie Scanlan and he phoned me back. Perhaps I’ll hear from Alice Therese, still recovering from that stroke. Emailed Mark Brennan early today and he was sympathetic and touched. Said he’d say his rosary for Moki tonight.

I am concerned about the disposition of the body. Cremation probably. How do I do a cheap cremation?

This morning, before redoing the bed, I found my iPhone. It was camouflaged on the dark polyester comforter. I was afraid it was lost for good and people would be trying to get me on it, and I might not be able to retrieve my mobile number for a new SIM card in Moki’s.

Greg wants me to review a Jonathan Bowden collection.

3:22 am. I have lost my iPhone, the “new” one. It might be somewhere in the bedclothes. Maybe one of the negroes took it? I should have stripped and made the bed before doing anything elseI think I caught an hour or two of sleep in the afternoon, but now I sort of don’t want to go to sleep. It’s not having Moki here. The loneliness is terrible. Even a crippled, dying Moki was better than no Moki at all.

3:33 am. Ah, but here is Moki’s phone. I couldn’t find that earlier. If I cannot find mine, I’ll see if T-Mobile can get me a SIM card with my 929 number.

Moki died yesterday morning. i don’t know when, it may have been the wee hours. I didn’t get around to phoning 911 until midday today. I’m not sure why. It could be because I thought he would miraculously rebound. What was the expression Joan Didion used? Magical Thinking?

So somebody came by early this afternoon. I can’t tell you who it was. I think there were a couple of people, and they inspected the corpse. The question was put to me again and again: why did you wait so long to call? The answer was, I’d never had a husband die on me before. I needed advice from someone.

So I’ve blotted out that first visit. A couple of hours later, I was awakened from a nap by a couple of young female patrolmen with flashlights. Apparently I’d left the door ajar. I think I acted very peevish and sort of bawled them out for surprising me that way. Gillian Pisciotti and Nicole McCann, I believe their names were. We hung out together for two or three hours and became good friends. In the meantime we were visited by an ME, a medical examiner named Donaldson. She had family from Belgium so that was something we had in common. She had some pointed questions for me. The vodka bottles. I assume she saw the Morton Williams bags inthe living room, not merely the few pint and liter bottles in the pantry. I said I was responsible for most of that. Moki always wanted vodka around but he didn’t drink much, so much of the v went down the drain.

The cop girls and I went downstairs to Starbucks and later to the Duane Reade across the street. One of them bought a lip-balm variation I’d never heard of, begins with C. The other one bought a little travel size of Listerine. Further into the night they showed me their prowler car, and pushed the buttons to show how the revolving lights and siren worked.

A couple of negroes were standing outside 60 West 57th when we came out of Duane Reade. They were the body-bag boys. They spent a helluva long time packing up the corpse. The cop girls and I sat in the corridor while we waited for them. I had a twinge of tears when the bag came out of the apartment. But I suppose I’m mostly over that now.  The gurney went down on the passenger elevator and he cop girls and I followed. Moki went into the hearse or ambulance, and the girls and I went into the squad car, briefly. I felt carefree afterwards. It was a quarter to nine and I went out to see if there was a liquor store open. I think I drank a full liter between yesterday afternoon and this morning.

22 Nov 2023, two days to go

One advantage to having Moki gone is that I can now focus on fitness again. I don’t have to worry about getting home from the gym to take care of him. Funny to think that for several weeks I was celebrating Taco Tuesday by bringing him tacos from Taco Bell at 8th Avenue and 51st St. Sometimes I got tacos from the old Natureworks on 55th, now called Cinco de Mayo. A superior product but Moki preferred the Taco Bell ones.

I don’t know what to do for entertainment now. I can finish reading the memoir of David Foster Wallace by his old fiancée in the London Review of Books. I never cared for Wallace, or at least never thought I’d care for Wallace, so I never gave him a chance. Moki and I spent much of our last two weeks watching Tinker, Tailor (both versions) and Smiley’s People. Television entertainment interests me not at all. I wish I had another liter of vodka, I really do. Do you suppose Moki has any interesting drugs in his medicine cabinet? I rather doubt it.

He doesn’t speak at all. Lies there, sometimes raises an arm, puts his hands down and touches his dingus. I ask him questions: Do you want anything? Do you know who I am? What is your name? No response.

Two weeks ago he was fully conversant, though eating almost nothing and not even getting out of bed to go to the bathroom. But we enjoyed movies together, and listened to books on Audible. A few days ago, when still speaking a little, he asked me if we could go walking in the park tomorrow (Saturday I think that would be). Of course we did not. I bought him a big bolster pillow to make it easier for him to sit up, but he only rests his head against it. Last week he was still after me to restock our vodka supply, to make him drinks, get him more ice.

I was crying a couple of hours ago when I went to the drugstore. I’d love to have him back, even in the pathetic state he was in two weeks ago. Talking to me, asking me to get him things.

Considering trying the Veterans Crisis Line chat link. Could they help? https://www.va.gov/new-york-harbor-health-care/make-an-appointment/

I’m afraid they’ll take him away and I want to stay near him. I haven’t even gone to the gym in a while because I can’t be away for two hours. When he was mentally sharp and conversant a few weeks ago, he’d tell me it was difficult for him when I was away in court or at the gym for a few hours. He was afraid I was never coming back.

Intriguing yet terrifying website that describes pretty clearly what I’ve been seeing: https://www.verywellhealth.com/the-journey-towards-death-1132504

It says there’s often a sudden burst of energy from the dying person, just before the end. I’m hoping against hope we’re not just before the end. I will continue the novena to St. Jude, asking for recovery. Full recovery, even minor recovery.

Today I’ve been coloring my hair for the first time in over two months. That’s why I went to the drugstore earlier: I couldn’t find the plastic shower cap I used last time. There’s now over an inch of fairly solid silver-gray hair at the hairline and part. Great big silver streak running down the back of the crown. If I have to meet people to handle Moki’s endtimes—EMS folks coming into the apartment? (Must clean up)—I should look half decent and not like a crazy person.

I see the dermatitis or eczema or psoriasis is coming back on my forehead. That disappeared entirely about six weeks ago, perhaps because I was on antibiotics for painful gums; one or two tooth abscesses. I should get back on amoxicillin or erythromyacin. Fish antibiotics, you know.

Michael’s sister A.T. hasn’t called at all lately. I don’t think they’ve spoken since her husband Jim died, back in April or May. She had a stroke last year and could scarcely talk on the phone at all after that. Michael tried to get some money from her for rent, and this outraged her. “I’m tired of this!” Michael was in such good health then. Michael stayed in touch for a while with one of her adopted sons, Jamie, but we haven’t heard from him either. Perhaps I should check Ancestry and see if Alice Therese Scanlan is dead yet! That’s how I learned a couple months ago that my sister and her estranged husband were dead.

Sobbing and weeping uncontrollably again, on and off as I write this.

I am pretty sure the husband is near death. A couple of months ago he stopped eating, then stopped getting out of bed and going to the bathroom. I won’t go into what accommodations I have made. He was still pretty conversational a week ago. All he needed was a vodka drink or two a day.Now he seems semi-comatose and won’t talk at all. Probably dehydrated too; won’t drink water when I stick a straw in his mouth.

I give him another day or two. My eyes, they are filled with tears. I have been abandoned by everyone. Totally desolate.

Forty-three years ago, John Bommer Murphy II had a middle-aged lover named Joe McEarthy. Joe had been some kind of senior business executive, like the Bommer’s father who was then head of Associated Dry Goods, so they communicated well.

Joe lived way the hell up on the Upper West Side, around West 108th Street, I think, near the tennis courts in Riverside Park. When the Bommer and I moved into 235 Second Avenue (not quite East Village; certainly not Gramercy Park) Joe would praise the area for its useful retailers. Hardware stores were high on his list. You don’t need more ice cream shops or fern-bar cafes, he’d say; you need hardware stores and cheap groceries. This is why Joe liked his skankier outreaches of the UWS, or so he maintained.

I kept this in mind a few years later when chain ice-cream shops (Steve’s Ice Cream) and t-shirt shops (The Gap) were moving into the East Village. Around 1984 one of the finest Ukrainian restaurants on Second Avenue, The Orchidia, had to move out to be replaced by a Steve’s Ice Cream, a local chain. We had some mild protests on the the sidewalk at the time.

Foreigners (there were plenty of foreigners, mostly from Austria) couldn’t understand. “Why you no like Steve? Steve wants store, why you no let Steve sell ice cream?” I heard from the Foreigner beside me. These people were clueless.

In karmic justice, the skeezy Steve’s Ice Cream only lasted a year or two. I have no idea what’s down there now.

Anyway, forty years later, I see that the mega-retailers whom I’d come to depend on, some of which were themselves responsible for gobbling up the ma-and-pa hardware stores and coffee shops in recent decades, have also bit the dust. Bed Bath & Beyond: where else would you go for sheets or a duvet cover? They no longer exist. Best Buy: they barely exist. These two examples were my regular go-tos on the near Upper West Side, near Lincoln Center. BestBuy has a surviving branch, way down on Fifth Avenue near 42nd Street. BB&B is gone for good. Am I now supposed to buy all my earphones and sheets and comforters via Amazon? I actually did buy a cheap polyester comforter from Amazon recently.

Worse nightmare yet: is HomeDepot on the way out? I bet it is. But for the meantime, since most of the local hardware stores are dead and gone, we are left with these big-box places that will necessarily fail because wide inventory and expansive retail space are no substitute for specialization and goodwill. My closest HomeDepot one is over on Third Avenue, near 59th. That’s quite a hike, but I don’t mind. I will be upset on learning that it’s not long for this world.

The decay of specialty retail stores is something I first spotted about 35 years ago. Up the street from me, across from Carnegie Hall, we had a little shop called Uncle Sam’s Umbrellas. The proprietor of Uncle Sam’s could tell you anything about the history and manufacture of umbrellas. Uncle Sam’s is of course no more. Like the chain cosmetic boutique on the corner of 57th and 7th, formerly an outlet for remaindered books for Barnes & Noble, but now just another dreary ATM branch for Chase Bank.

Stationers suffered most, I think. Stationers and their ennobled kinsfolk, art-supply shops. They got gobbled up by chains calling themselves Office Club or Office Depot. Not far from that dear departed Uncle Sam’s Umbrellas lies the dead Lee’s Art Shop, a cynosure for art directors and illustrators for many decades. It leaves behind a tiny shop in the Art Students League across the street, but the supply of everything there is necessarily limited. Then, over on Broadway, between 57th and 56th, you have a Staples, as generic an office-supply shop as you can find. Do they sell fountain pens? Not a chance. Cartridges for your fountain pens? Good luck. Sepia ink or sepia-ink cartridges? Hahaha.

We used to have a dozen shops around, within walking distance, that could sell you every type of ink under the rainbow. Good luck finding something like that now, short of Amazon or maybe online Dick Blick.