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Friday 31 December 2021

OBITUARY

 

Wilbur Kenneth (or Wilbert Cannut) Huck

1930 -2021

Wilbur Huck was a peculiar man.  (He called himself “eccentric.”)  He was a kind and sweet man who presented himself as cantankerous and kvetching.  A gentle man who could yell and bristle when he felt threatened.  A deeply loving man who could not reach out to make friends.  A literary scholar who wrote little.  A man of great learning who had trouble understanding himself and those he loved.  A man whose name was misspelled on his birth certificate. A Gemini.

                  Will’s parents were Volga Germans who immigrated to America before the First World War.  Each of them went through hardship while getting to the United States, his mother being turned away twice for health reasons, crossing and recrossing the Atlantic with sick eyes.  Both his parents lost their first spouses to the Spanish Flu and brought children into their marriage.  So Will was born at home near Bayard, Nebraska in a house with a large family among whom English, German, and Russian were spoken.

                  As a baby, he seemed bewitched or like a changeling to older relatives. A “wise woman” was brought in to perform a spell to fix his strangeness.  In later years, thinking of this story, his wife wondered if this early bit of “healing” was a response to a child with high functioning Asperger’s. 

                  Will started reading very young, getting his library card and taking out books from the adult section when he was in grade school.  A favorite story of his was the time a woman complained that “this little boy” should not be allowed to check out  Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca. The librarian and his mother said that he was already able to read novels and why shouldn’t he?.  His early scholarly attitudes also made him a “teaching assistant” in the two-room school he attended, sometimes being put in charge of instructing younger children.

                  He went to high school in Minatare, Nebraska and then on to Yankton College in, South Dakota, preparing to become a Congregational minister.  A year in the field as a replacement preacher (the only year he ever drove a car) taught him that he didn’t have the social or political skills for the ministry.  (And perhaps having a parishioner drop dead of a heart attack in the center aisle the first time he ever served encouraged that decision.)

                  He returned to school and earned a couple of degrees from the University of Chicago, Masters in Literature and Bachelor of Divinity.  His first job hunt led him to Idaho State College in Pocatello.  Although he looked for work elsewhere, taking a leave of absence to teach at Pacific Lutheran in Washington, he eventually accepted his lot, though with some grousing.  When ISC became a university after he had received tenure, he faced pressure to get a doctorate, pressure he resisted loudly with the help of his faculty union. He was a highly visible character on campus, winning a “best teacher” award while also being hated by some for handing out “the grades they deserve” and resisting grade inflation until his retirement.  

                  He taught a variety of courses including basic composition and upper division literature.  Among the lit courses he taught were British, American, Women’s, 20th Century, and the Bible as.  He also invented the first film studies courses at the college.  As a professor, he always found new books to share, new movies to show.  He despised and rarely used anthologies and textbooks, preferring “real books”.  Ironically, his one major publication, The Modern Short Story, was an anthology, edited and with commentary and questions by himself and William Shanahan.  As an expert in film, he was called as a witness in the 1974 Idaho Falls censorship trial of Last Tango in Paris.

                  Beyond the classroom, he ran the writing center for a few years.  He also spear-headed a team that created a long-running film program called Cinema Six, offering one of the only ways to see foreign films in Pocatello.  And as a long-time member of the Speakers and Artists Committee he helped bring great culture to the intermountain campus. 

                  On that committee he worked with Huldah Bell (ne: Hanson) and they became great friends.  In August 1971 she introduced him to her niece, Kakie Hanson, who had just graduated from a California high school and come to Poky for college.  After Huldah’s birthday party that October, this rather feral young woman followed Will home and started something.  Two years later they eloped without telling Kakie’s parents.  She was 19 and he was 43 at the time they wed in the Bannock County Courthouse.  Their union was a scandal which both of them ignored.  It paid her tuition through her Masters program.  Although living with another person, especially such an eccentric one, was rough and tumble for both of them, they eventually grew into their relationship, in spite of her being a Boomer and him being a member of the Silent Generation.  Will supported Kake through her schooling as well as her mental health struggles.  Kake wound up caring for Will through his final years of vascular dementia. 

                  Not that Will would have noticed these facts as a “balancing.”  He didn’t approve of what he called “a debit-credit morality.”  The concept of “things balancing out” within relationships, whether with other humans or God, was not part of his weltanschauung.  He gave what he could to people and his god and accepted what was given, be it a feast of love or a famine of friends.  There was no “this for that” where connection was concerned.

                  But where money was concerned, he kept his eyes on the scales. The man never met a penny he couldn’t squeeze till Lincoln popped a tear.  Until his death, he was living with furniture he inherited from his mother.  He believed in guerilla consumerism.  Until his dementia, he did all the household shopping with clipped coupons.  When Kake took on the financial tasks Will had performed most their lives together, she realized how much he had cared for her by shouldering that burden through the years.

                  Will picked up their shared burden when he took early retirement from Idaho State University in 1990 after 33 years of teaching.  In late 1989 he visited Kake in Central Oregon, where she was teaching at the community college and, after two days of shopping, bought the house that he would die in thirty two years later.  He moved to Bend in September, 1990 with his entire personal library which eventually grew to about 10,000 volumes.  Over a retirement that lasted (almost) as long as his teaching career, he read, watched movies on television, and enjoyed traveling to see art, theatre, and film.  During the school year, he supported his wife by taking care of the shopping, cooking, clothes washing, taxes, bills, and outdoor flowers. 

                  From 1976 until 2016, Will also cared for the household cats, first the beloved golden Max, then ferocious five-pound Rafferty, followed by the most-revered June Jhumpa (rescued from the Deschutes County Humane Society)  and boring old black Sasha.  In 2009, after years of argument, Will allowed Kake to purchase a poodle puppy with whom he promptly fell in love.  Birdy and Will have been caring for each other ever since.

                  Will is survived by his wife of 48 years, Karen “Kake” Huck. He is preceded in death by his parents, John and Effie Huck, and all of his siblings:  Hermina, Mable, Hank, Jacob, Elmer, Sam, Frieda, and Bill.

                  The funeral will be streamed live from the Trinity Episcopal Church Youtube site:  .https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCxl0n_Mp4Je0f9oApiqxCdw?   

Bring Out Your Dead

 

Wilbur Kenneth Huck was pronounced dead by on-call hospice nurse Flora at 3:45 p.m. Sunday, December 26, Boxing Day, St. Stephen's Day.

Bereft of life, he is no more.  He has gone to sing with the choir invisible and shall soon be pushing up the daisies in the Pilot Butte Cemetery and sometime in the fall a bronze representation of Birdy will watch over him through time and eternity or someone in the Mad Max future pillages the graveyard and melts down her sculpture into canon balls.

OK.  If I gave a fuck about SEO as I did for the two long years I wasn't able to run my funeral/wedding celebrant business well enough, I'd be expecting an  editorial comment about how the preceding sentence was too long but in argument I must say I was profoundly influenced by the book All the King's Men when I was in high school and emulated the paragraph-long sentences of Robert Penn Warren.  And of course (right arm flourishing upward) Shakespeare!  and Dickens, in the form of memorized passages of A Christmas Carol.  What I mean is, I had long, complex sentences in my head long before I wrote Sentenced to Venice.

Even as my friends surrounded me with loved during the last couple of weeks it was wretchedly hard dealing with the piss and shit and sadness about same and cleaning and loving him and hating the process and being really fucking mad at God for putting as both through this kind of ending.  

And Heart and Home Hospice failed me at the end.  It's nobody's fault.  Everybody did the best they could but it wasn't good enough.  The week before Will died our CNA caregiver and I both knew he was dying.  I had been promised by Nurse Karen (who left Heart and Home for a better paying job) that she would be able to accurately predict approaching death and I'd have someone coming by every day.  Nurse X. was telling me, "Oh, I'll come by twice next week."  This the last week of his life.  How come Jen and I knew and Nurse X didn't.  I feel some crankiness with her, although she was very professional and caring during her visits.  However, I asked her to find me a volunteer and she said, 'After the Holidays - hard to find somebody now.'  I assume she had to follow certain protocols and was doing the best she could.  I felt caring from all individual hospice people but I cannot recommend the business.  Their protocols or Nurse X's interpretation of them gave me insufficient support during Will's final week.  They never gave me "the booklet" about the end of life -- no one offered it to me.  People seemed to expect me to know what to do.  One nurse seemed surprised I'd never changed a diaper.  Basically, I felt abandoned and neglected, even though Nurse X wrote a text to me saying "If we are to a point of daily visits then we will be there for you daily."  My whole experience with them speaks to me of corporate bullshittery -- the people hired seem caring but overworked and underpaid and the protocols left me desperate and gasping my last week.  Why?  Plus nobody from Hospice took the time to explain, orally, how to use the medications until after I started having trouble with him fighting me while I tried to change and clean him.  I never got their death booklet.  "What to do until the reaper comes."

December 16:  Hospital bed moves in.  Pastor Noah Heinrich is there to visit with Will and also support me in a time of transition. 

Nurse X visits.  I ask about getting a volunteer to visit me.  She says that she will ask about it.  DOES NOT GET BACK TO ME ON THIS ISSUE EVEN AFTER WILL DIES.  DOES NOT SAY SHE IS SORRY.  Not that I'm pissed off or anything.

 He helps me bring up the pad from the couch downstairs. I covered that with sheets and blankets.  During the night I would wake when I heard the metal on the hospital bed to find he'd uncovered his long, bare legs and seemed to be trying to get out of bed.  I would ask him what he wanted and he wouldn't know and he'd lie down again. 

December 17:  At 5:34 in the morning after an extremely restless night, I posted a call for help on Facebook.  I knew we were in the very last phase and knew I couldn't get through it by myself OR with the support of a Hospice that seemed to be abandoning me.

I FB posted that the phase Will and I were entering, with me sleeping on the floor beside his hospital bed, was much harder than I thought it would be.  Friends come through with food, dairy-free ice cream, visits, phone calls.  Awesome group, the people I know, now that I know how to know people who are awesome rather than people who abandon at the slightest sign of discomfort. 

December 18:  He has a shitstorm in bed.  After working with him for a half hour I finally contact Nurse X who contacts the oncall who contacts me.  SHE is absolutely wondeful, Nurse Keyara.  I yelled at her about lack of support and she calmed me down by doing proper listening techniques ("I understand what you're saying") and I apologized to her.  

 I got friend visits and food and fed my relationship with weed so freely I stopped getting high.

What I didn't get was a call or Facebook message from my pastor!  And I got hit with rage spurt and I made a decision to use a communication method I dislike but one which seemed appropriate in the given situation.  I triangulated (which probably turned into a quadrangle or quintangle) my rage, telling someone else about it (and using all my Irish fucks which I give freely).  I didn't receive any message from him before I went to bed.

I exchange the couch pad for the mattress on the single bed I bought from Target. 

I text Pastor Noah repeatedly but it isn't until late that night that he is able to respond, having been out of cell phone range.

December 19, Sunday:  He makes it to the bathroom with me holding on to him, holding steady his 113 lbs.  He is dying and he is insisting on getting to the bathroom, I'm sure because it is less trouble for me.  More friends visit.  My pastor calls and apologizes.  I forgive him and accept his apology while noting that it did happen that I felt abandoned by him.  From that point on he calls every couple of days.  Unfortunately, he tends to use his Digby O'Dell voice and I want to say "talk normal" which I will if he continues to use it.

December 20th:  Will sleeps almost all day.  Visit from Nurse X.  She tells me she'll come twice next day.  Why do I know he's dying when she doesn't?  I have a partial night away from the house but it's snowing so heavily that I head back after a nice dinner.

I contact Holly Pruet, a Funeral Celebrant I've met and hire her to create a Eulogy for Will. 

Fucking reSupply doesn't show up to move the marital bed.  I engage in some explosive messaging (that anger still finding targets) and the next day I hire College Hunks Moving Junk.  Yay -- quick, profesional, showing up when they said on Thursday.

December 21 Tuesday:  Jen calls in sick.  She will not be able to come back to work until Friday morning.

The new Nurse's aide, Rachel, comes to change and bathe him and he lets her because she's awesome instead of scary, like the Tuesday Dec. 14 cna.

Pastor Noah comes for his final visit.  He has a great talk with Will during which Will says that he is ready to die, that he know that he is dying, that he is ready to go to heaven. The wonderful Pastor Noah is talking about Paradise and an end to pain and I ask Will if he wants to go be with Birdy and June Jhumpa and he says "yes."  I tell him I love him and he says he loves me.

And I want to say God Bless Pastor Noah.  We have very different Christian theologies, but we both believe in doing the work and he does the work.

 December 22, Wednesday:  

I am on a zoom call with Holly Pruet when thin almost-a-ghost Will Huck appears confused at the door of the bedroom, having climbed over or through the rails of the hospital bed. 

At 4:00 in the afternoon I am blessed by a visit from the Trinity Episcopal choir.

December 23:  another visit from Nurse X who blithely says, "We'll see you for two visits next week."

December 24:  Jen is able to give me three hours so I run an errand downtown and then return early because of the snow.  I watch some of the evening service but am not feeling all that much like welcoming that baby who was probably born in spring anyway.

December 25:  I call the hospice because I've let him go too long without changing.  The lovely oncall person arrives and we change him and he fights us.  I fear the last thing my spouse said to me was "no no go away" while pushing me with his hands.  I assume he suffered a cluster of more strokes at this point in time.  Once he and the bed were clean, he didn't change position until he couldn't.

I spent the day putting all his remaining clothing (except a couple of pieces I will keep and a couple give away).

December 26:  Boxing Day, St. Stephen's Day.  

When I woke up I saw he was in the same position.  I took his hand and noticed his fingertips were blue.  He had a fever of 101.  I'd been giving him morphine with aloprazolam for about 36 hours after a nurse finally told me I could do that (oh, my...I could have used so much more information so much earlier).

 I called Hospice.  On-call Nurse Flora said she could come after she dealt with three other clients in LaPine.  

Jen gave me a few hours to have lunch on Sunday.  I went to Greg's Grill and had a steak.  I returned.  Jen left.  Hospice nurse Flora arrived and we cleaned him and she notice a fever of 103 and said he was dying as she sat there.  We changed places and she stood with her hand on his heart and I held his hand and watched his face as he died as I was telling his spirit or driver or whatever was left that I loved him.





 


Sunday 26 December 2021

Archeology - Oh My Fuck

 




So I was  bagging his old clothes to take them to The Shepherd's House because everything in these bags has plenty of wear left in it -- the man was a clothes horse.  I'm having him buried not in his Donna Karan suit but in his Barcelona bought black leather jacket and black jeans.  When he bought that jacket (for $400) without calling me he scandalized the wives of two other couples because he spent money without asking me.  As if.
 
 
 So it's important to understand that Will and I had separate closets, though we slept together, I always changed downstairs.  (He had purchased the house in part so that we could have separate areas...and I haven't had a separate area inside this house for months now.)  Anyway, I hadn't looked for anything in this closet for.... ever...until this summer, when I found my Jr. Miss dress in it.  Yesterday I pulled a bankers box out of it and found, in the usual mess, a treasure trove of family portraits buried along with old playbills from the 80s, a file folder full of sermons, some ticket stubs, letters from yet another woman who got angry with him and bolted because he didn't communicate correctly, and our old, 1992 sexual agreement.

Young Scholar, Wilbur Huck
 
 
 
And, in the very back of the closet,
 
 
The  surprising thing is where he kept this, not that he had it.  I think he hid it from me in a fruitless attempt to "win" our ongoing silent discussion about his sexuality.
 



Tuesday 21 December 2021

Shitty Morning / Answered Prayers

 This post was started Saturday.  Shitty Saturday.

We moved him to a hospital bed either in time or past time.  So much shit pouring out of him this morning and he was so uncomfortable.  But at least it didn't start till I got up.  He may be able to get out of the bed but he shouldn't try to walk without help or he'll fall and be in real pain.  So I kept cleaning him and thinking I was done and then more shit.  But in the "end" it's my fault.  I didn't give him his anti-diarrheal yesterday because it's a gelcap and I thought he couldn't swallow.  I did manage to get two down him after the sixth time I cleaned him and put a fresh chuck under him.

On the plus side, I've been praying for a gigolo and out of the mists of time I got a call from someone I knew in high school.  (He played Oberon in the senior play.)  He asked how I was and I unloaded on him.  Then I asked for his story.  It was a pretty West Coast American upper professional class story of success and sadness.  And it reminded me that I never want to be married again.



---------- Tuesday morning -------

Several friends stopped by over the weekend.  AND my priest finally contacted me with a prayer and apology for missing what was happening with me (even though we're fucking Facebook friends and he had the same ability to get my original post in a timely manner - which tells me I'm not his top 15.  Or is it 8?

I feel surrounded by love and care.  It's still hard, but some of the emotional heavy lifting feels shared.

And I made an important decision yesterday.  If my old friend is not dead by Christmas, I will not be going to New York to see Hugh Jackman.  There's no way my sister can manage what's happening now plus not being with him as he dies seems an ignominious end to such a long and loving relationship.

I remember 4 or 5 years ago a one-time friend of mine telling me that it was good for an acquaintance (who had had to have her demented spouse institutionalized because - Alzheimer's) to stay on her vacation when her husband was dying in the care home. I thought at the time that it was a reasonable choice, but not something I could do.  Up until two days ago I thought my thinking had changed -- I thought I could leave him to others.  But I can't leave him to unpracticed others.  There's too much care involved now.  And I love him still and don't want him afraid.


Sunday 19 December 2021

Eulogy

 Something I want the Celebrant to mention in the Eulogy, "They had instant compatibility:  he was big, and she could swallow it."

 A friend of mine thinks I've been in the anger stage of grieving.


Photo by Andre Tan on Unsplash

 

 

 

 


 



Thursday 16 December 2021

Patient or Sweetheart?


Photo by Paola Chaaya @paolitta

I may have accidentally hastened my sweethearts decline on Tuesday when for a minute I held his arms down as the CNA was trying to clean him.  He was screaming "Stop, stop!" and "I'll kill you, I'll kill you."  I was treating him as a patient.  Then my heart kicked in and I told her to stop, that I'd rather he be dirty than terrified.  My heart is still attached. 

And, come to think of it, how can he still have so much shit in him if he's not eating?  I know he's dirty right now but it's still dark outside and he's asleep and yesterday I cleaned up three shitcidents and I'm not ready until I hear him stirring awake.  Then I'll get him up, get him into the bathroom, strip the bed (again).

I've asked for the hospital bed to be delivered today rather than Monday.  

I'm moving two chairs into the garage and/or taking them to Goodwill on Friday.





Tuesday 14 December 2021

Yesterday Sucked and yet . . .

 Yesterday I experienced a huge grief spurt (chest pain, sick to stomach, weeping, inability to think) when the hospice nurse told me it was time to bring in a hospital bed. So next Monday, our marital bed of 48 years will be picked up and hauled away in the morning and a hospital bed brought in in the afternoon. I am in my house alone with him except for my respite times. I am fortunate to have our caregiver here for 17 hours during the week. I have been praying for the Almighty to take His turn with my spouse and it looks like he's answering but it's still not going to be easy watching the love of my life starve to death.

This is the one time in my life I wished I had children so I could have someone in the house with me while I'm going through this.  

One of my church friends told me I can call people and ask for what I need.  She said, "What do you need?  And I thought for awhile and said, "a gigolo."  In my "wicked" past, I usually had at least some Other whom I used to deal with my anger, despair, and need to be thought attractive.

I've always believed in a God with a sense of humor.  This morning I'm recalling that the most money I ever made for a poem - $250 - was for winning a contest with a poem about dementia.  The poem was later published in the anthology, Beyond Forgetting.  The jive-ass muthafucka in charga da whole universe got it some fine sense of irony.  However, as angry as I have been at the Eternal lately I must thank it for the helpers I'm surrounded by, especially for the Facebook spousal caregivers group.  Several of the folks this morning posted that they were going through the same thing.


DEATH PICKS UP MY AUNT, HULDAH BELL


Absence is always too soon for someone.
Standing at the door, discussing
fat peonies on the porch or leftovers
boxed to carry home, the body remains
among the things it knew.  While there outside,
already in the car, tired of making small tal,
the mind is waiting, leaning on the horn.

This lengthy last discussion disturbs
those who remain behind, still busy
with the party.  "Just go or stay,"
we whisper to each other, wink-grimacing
our disapproval.  Such fragmentation
disrupts our practiced tales of war
and marriage told with brandy
and that second piece of cake.

 

 

And yet, yesterday also gave me joy in the evening when I met for the last time this year with my Exploring Faith Matters - EFM - class on Zoom (because - ice).  This class is absolutely wonderful, albeit small, and I always feel joyful when we have a deep theological discussion, as we did last night.  SOoooo - I have much for which to be thankful even as I grouse and complain about having to do the work of caregiving until the end.

AND, I am working on realizing that this is a powerful privilege...watching someone die as one's heart is ripped to shreds on waking every morning.  And I mean that kinda sincerely.  I was a hospice volunteer in the 90s...so I am a bit prepared for all that's happening.  And it is a common experience that isn't talked about a lot.  Sigh.  Always look on the bright side of life.


Monday 13 December 2021

Hospital Bed

 I've just put in an order with The Arc to pick up our marital bed on Monday morning so that a hospital bed can be delivered Monday afternoon.

He is so weak now.

On Sunday he came out to sit in his wingback and suddenly made a face.  

"I've dirtied myself," he said when I asked.  I asked if he needed the movable toilet and he said "No, I've already."  So I spread some newspapers under his feet, got his walker to help him stand up, stripped his dirty clothes off him, cleaned his butt, got a fresh nightie on him and then got him to the bedroom where I got some pullups on him.  

In some ways, this is a privilege.  If I can hold that in my heart.  To birth the love of one's life into the next world.  

Advent.  

Ralph Richardson and Denholm Elliot
On the plus side, I had a wonderful time watching and talking about the movie Holly and the Ivy last night with the Trinity Film folks. Great family Christmas story from a play written in 1951.  Beautifully filmed and still very theatrical, it presents a family drama of Christmastime revelations as a Parson (played by the great Ralph Richardson) comes to realize he might be spending too much time with the congregation and not enough time with his family.  Written by Wynward Brown, who had a parson for a father.






Saturday 11 December 2021

ETA

 Estimated Time of Angelization:  2 months or less.

 


 


Thursday 9 December 2021

Bath

 

Rubber ducky, you're not the one. 








 
He barely tolerated a bed bath yesterday.  He started yelling at the CNA to "Go away!" and she tried to sooth him but at that moment, I was the only one who could.  So I went into the bedroom to the head of the bed and told him that he was sick and that he didn't want to go to the hospital, did he?  So he was going to need to tolerate having himself cleaned up. He never took off his nightie but she was able to get all the old shit off his private parts.  I kept telling him I loved him and that he was sick and I used the ugly threat of the hospital to help him "be brave" about being touched by a stranger.

But it's done.  She'll be coming once a week for the duration.  The last time he got into the bathtub, months ago, he couldn't get out by himself.  I stepped into the tub behind him and put my arms under his armpits. He also pushed with his arms and I finally got him up, showered, and out.  Since then I've tried to clean him after the shitcidents but I haven't always been completely successful.  

Will has always been very private about self care.


Tuesday 7 December 2021

Frail

 He woke me at one this morning to help him get out of bed to get to the bathroom.

When I guided him there, I felt how tight the skin was across his ribcage.

My goal now is to keep him from pain and anxiety and to keep myself from becoming any crazier than I am.

He weighs 114 lbs now.

Yesterday the hospice nurse and I went over what was happening inside him clinically as he is shutting down.

How can my heart keep breaking.  It should be done by now.