A Tale of Two Annes
Back in high school about 250 years ago, we studied A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.
I feel like I’m undergoing a novel experience of a much more intense and baffling sort in my personal life: A Tale of Two Annes.
My wife Anne has been stricken by glioblastoma, an extremely aggressive form of incurable brain cancer. Her life expectancy is severely curtailed.
I have known many Annes over our 46 years together, but the most radical personality cleavage is between the pre-cancer Anne and my darling wife, post disease.
The pre-glioblastoma Anne was feisty, opinionated, and very quirky.
She practically memorized all the novels of Jane Austen, having devoured them, like a delectable feast, dozens of times per year. In fact, Anne has memorized huge chunks of poetry and prose in the course of her lifetime, including “The Lady of Shallot”, numerous poems by Leonard Cohen, swathes of One Hundred Years of Solitude, Haiku poetry, The Importance of Being Earnest, and so much more besides.
She could rhyme off the entire lineage of the British monarchy, starting in early medieval times, and would do so, unprompted, after a glass or two of wine, much to the chagrin of our sons.
She shopped at Simons and has been known to be so startled by the jarring sound of a cell phone that she hurled the offending device across the waiting room of a bus depot.
She has always despised smart phones, smart apartments, and smart apps.
Anne has always been “no logo”; she has never worn garments garnished with slogans.
Our sons call her “couth” and have always found her endearingly eccentric. Since English is not her first language, she sometimes garbles common expressions, pronounces words in the Slovak way, and uses vocabulary from Jane Austen or other 19th century authors.
She has never told anybody to “Have a good one” and has always found my English-Canadian manners and mannerisms “nauseatingly friendly.”
She carries her Eastern European heritage within her like an undigested lump:
The Russians are coming/ Les Russes sont à nos portes August 22, 1968 – Robert McBryde
Her life has been anything but easy, as reading the short account linked above will attest.
Anne has always been the true artist in our home. She has developed a unique aesthetic, creating pared-down floral arrangements, which others have defined as reminiscent of Japanese Ikebana.
Anne is the true artist in our home – Robert McBryde
Anne Is The True Artist In Our Home: Song Version – Robert McBryde
Anne has always despised clutter. She has often deemed herself “constipated,” metaphorically speaking of course.
A related mania has emerged as a slavish adherence to best-before dates.
The post-cancer, post-op Anne is serene and non-verbal. She chuckles like a babbling brook, delightfully mystified by the strange cascade of life unfurling around her, and by her own gaps and foibles.
The new Anne will devour every sort of tasty comestible, no longer deterred by sticky sweets or volcanic spice.
She does not know who Mark Carney is and she doesn’t care.
She bombs around using a walker that she revs up to Mach speed.
She will stare for hours at children paddling in a wading pool…or at simple folk as they go about their day to day lives.
She is tender and affectionate, like an ethereal fawn.
She loves chirping birds and blooming flowers.
She is not frightened, bitter, or depressed.
She will pop out all sorts of off-kilter observations; yesterday she informed me that” I have a big schnoz.” (It runs in the family.)
Like a delicate green shoot, this new Anne has germinated from the seeds of the old.
Whenever I think back on our shared life, I will acutely remember both incarnations, thus transforming them into a third.
Your friend,
Robert
https://robertmcbrydeauthor.com/
