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| In Willcox, Arizona, 2021 |
Since my last post, life has brought more very difficult change, and it is with unspeakable sorrow that I write today to tell you that the Artist, David Paul Grath, the love of my life, died on Wednesday morning, March 2, just before 4 a.m. "Unspeakable" because unbelievable -- and yet I can't stop speaking of him and writing about him. You have read for years of our adventures together, and you have seen examples of his beautiful art. Here is the story of his last days. Some of you have already seen it on Facebook or received news from me in e-mail, but the Artist has been such an important presence on Books in Northport that it seems only fitting to post here, as well.
Following surgery in January at St. Joseph Hospital (Barrow Institute) in Phoenix, which followed a mild stroke and a COVID diagnosis earlier in the month, David had a second surgery at Chandler Regional Medical Center two weeks ago, on Wednesday, February 16. We expected, as did doctors, a fairly straightforward hiatal hernia repair, but the full story turned out to be much more complicated, surgery much more extensive. On Saturday night he became confused and finally unresponsive and was put on a ventilator and moved back to ICU, where I stayed with him all night Sunday-Monday, holding his hand. His daughter Maiya flew in late Monday.
The following Friday evening David woke from his coma, opened his eyes, nodded and wiggled his toes on command. I was so happy! Saturday and Sunday he was awake, aware, very responsive, and completely present. He was allowed only one visitor at a time, only two per day, so Maiya and I took turns. He loved holding hands with both of us, and every time he would squeeze my hand, I would tell him, “Thank you, sweetheart!” and he would nod. It looked as if things were going in a positive direction.
Monday was arduous, however, and that night he had a serious setback. The next morning he made it plain to me and to Maiya that he wanted the ordeal to be over. Since he had had conversations with his doctors before surgery, they understood clearly what he considered a bottom-line acceptable life, so while the ICU doctor had hoped to get him back to that level, he agreed after Monday night’s setback, given David’s clear communications to me and to Maiya and to nurses, that David could be taken off the ventilator and everything except pain meds stopped. Maiya and I never left his side, from 2 p.m. until 3:56 a.m., when he drew his last breath.
I deeply, truly feel that David woke from that coma for me and not for himself — and that he stayed as long as he did for Maiya and me. So many gifts! He had encouraged me, before his surgery, to get the puppy I’d found online, and to get her he had me take cash he’d set aside for an Italian motorcycle that had been tempting him for weeks! (“I don’t intend to ride it; I just want to have it,” he said, but finally he changed his mind and voted for the puppy instead.) The day following his surgery, when I took him a book of poems and another wrapped book for his birthday (which, as it turned out, he never opened, since he was in a coma by the time his birthday rolled around), he had me bring him his duffel bag so he could find a book he had been reading and inscribe it to me. The inscription is practically illegible, but he told me what it said. "Love returns always." I now think that love never leaves....
Best gift of all, though, were those squeezes of my hand, from Friday evening through Tuesday morning. So many times he would squeeze my hand and my eyes would fill with tears, and I would say, “Yes, yes, thank you, sweetheart!” and he would nod. Once I told him how sorry I was that he had had to suffer through so much that neither he nor I would ever have chosen, had we been able to foresee consequences of the surgery, and I asked, “Are you mad at me?” And he shook his head no and patted my hand in a comforting way. There was nothing but love between us. The greatest gift —
My heart is broken, but I have been blessed to have my life with David, so while I can’t stop crying and don’t know how I will go on without him, at the same time I know that I have been -- and in many ways continue to be -- a very lucky woman. Besides having the joy of each other for so long, David and I have also been blessed with famiy and friends, too, all along, and it means the world to me, especially now. So many of you have loved him, I know, and join me in both sorrow and in gratitude. It is unbelievable, all of it.
An outpouring of love and sympathy and support, the sharing of beautiful memories, meaningful conversations, and laughter has been filling my Facebook page. Since early this morning I have been sending messages and reading messages with tears streaming down my face, not knowing how I'll go on without the love of my life and at the same time -- it feels so strange! -- awash in gratitude for all the blessings he brought into my life, blessings that continue now, along with our love. I had not anticipated that I would feel gratitude in a time of such sorrow and grief. It is yet another gift from my beloved David, who has given me so much.
One Leelanau County friend, Mari Lee Raphael, shared a poem with me that I want to share here with all of you.
My words will be beautiful…
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| Dennos Museum Center, Traverse City, 2017 |
As David and I liked to say of others who had gone before us, he himself "paid his rent in the universe" and "got his work done." The paintings will live on, as will the memories and the love.
8 comments:
May you be wrapped in strength and courage for the journey ahead. Life is just so bittersweet. I am so glad that you have your Sunny now. Marlee has been my anchor since my husband died.
Oh, dearest friend! I’m crying, too. Your last message to us is so sad, so tragic, but your words and feelings of being grateful are beautiful and heartwarming. Your thankful words leave me in tears, and you are generous and loving with the memories you have with David. I admire you, dearest. The love you two shared is wonderfully reflected in your grief. Thank you for telling us, for describing so well how your life was and how David was loved so deeply by so many!
I barely knew David, I’m sorry to say. I sat at the big table at Barb’s a few summer mornings with him and others. I was taken with his hat and, of course, his stories. I knew he was a “famous” landscape artist, but I didn’t actually know his work. In December of 2016, I moved from my woods north of Northport to a condo in Traverse City, needing an easier lifestyle. The following summer, I saw in the newspaper notice of David’s exhibit at the Dennos. I went partly because I was homesick for all things Northport, but also because I was curious and interested to learn more about the work of the man in the hat. Right away, as an amateur photographer, I felt a connection to and recognition of his Leelanau works. I was struck by the golds and the black waters. I came away sad in some ways, but amazed in others, ultimately wishing I knew more of The Artist, as you’ve called him. I’m sad for you, Pamela, because I sense the road ahead of grieving. I also am aware of the wonderful memories of the life you had with David that will sustain you. I mostly hope you have enough support while you’re out in your winter home, which feels isolated to me. And, you’ve not mentioned that new puppy. I hope she’ll be there with you as comfort these next few weeks.
Pamela. I don't really know you, am just an infrequent bookstore customer and constant blog reader. I am so very sorry to hear this unexpected news. You have my condolences on the loss of David, the love of your life.
I have learned of so many books from you, so - having become something of an unfortunate expert in grief in recent years - allow me to recommend a couple non-schmaltzy "self-help" (ugh) books about grief. One is called Bearing the Unbearable by Joanne Cacciatore. You may also try It's Ok to Not Be Ok by Megan Devine.
And I will leave you with this, from my favorite, William Trevor: ‘A person’s life isn’t orderly… it runs about all over the place, in and out through time. The present’s hardly there; the future doesn’t exist. Only love matters in the bits and pieces of a person’s life.’
Cathy
How you have the strength to write such beautiful words of comfort for the rest of us amazes and inspires.... hugs and more hugs....
I am so deeply sorry for your profound loss. Though I have spoken to you just a few times, I can't quite grasp this news. Just yesterday I drove by your shop and the Artist's studio for the first time since August. I was in Leelanau for just one day and I wanted to see if I could spot a David Grath painting in the window. Alas, the blinds were down. If I had only known, I would have placed something - a flower, a stone...something - on the stoop. I wish I could have done that.
Every summer I wander around your shop and gather wonderful books. When I feel like no one is watching, I slip into the gallery. There is something about the golden and amber hues in so many of his works that touches me deeply. I have always felt too shy to speak to him, but just being there, surrounded by his paintings, was always such a lovely feeling. I am truly grateful for all of the years you both provided spaces that welcomed me, a quiet person who loves books and art. You will never fully know what that has meant to me.
Last summer you were so kind when I told you I was getting a puppy and you helped me find books that would guide me on my journey. Now my truest wish is that your new puppy will bring you comfort, joy, and laughter throughout the coming days. Please know that I am sending you love and light.
Dear Pamela - Dawn sent me a message, bless her. I am so sorry to hear of David's death. I know you are wrapped in the arms of people all over the country, and especially Up Here. Writers and bloggers and readers and dog lovers . . . and anyone who has ever had the pleasure of your company. Let me add my love, too.
This is a season of life full of hard losses, yet full of rich memories that sustain us. I am glad Sunny has come to give you her soft warmth. I know you have all the best kinds of memories of your life with the Artist. You don't need me to tell you all that stuff. You know it in your bones. But maybe it helps to hear one more voice in the choir - a warbly one that never could stay in tune, but mine own.
When you are ready to come back to this home, it will be good to make the drive around the bays and up to Northport to greet you. Surely the snow will stop by then. The sun will linger.
Oh Lord I hope I remember how to send a comment . . .
Love, Gerry
I just read of David’s death in today’s Enterprise. I am so sorry to learn that. He left behind a legacy as an artist that comes the closest to immortality that anyone can achieve.
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