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Visiting Ethel Wilson
With Janet Giltrow, a graduate student, David Stouck first crossed paths
with Ethel Wilson in December 1975. He recalls:
"Young and unthinking, we went to the Arbutus Private Hospital in the evening
and found her lying prone on a bed with metal sides raised -- in Janet's words,
'like a sarcophagus.' She was barely awake, evidently sedated for the
night. It was depressing to see the elegant writer we greatly admired so
diminished by circumstances and we hurried away, promising ourselves and a
staff attendant that we would return another day. But the paraphernalia and
ambiance of a nursing home -- or perhaps just the glimpse of an arborite
table with a little plastic Christmas tree and some tattered issues of the
Reader's Digest in the hallway -- discouraged us from going back any time
soon.
"But when we did return, on a spring morning having arranged the visit in
advance, we found Ethel Wilson fresh from the hair salon in a smartly
tailored dress, ready with her nurse's assistance to entertain visitors for
tea. There was little conversation with the author who at eighty-eight was
profoundly deaf -- the nurse talked instead --, but there was poise and
self-possession in Ethel Wilson's august, watchful presence. I went by
myself one afternoon in 1977 and enjoyed dry sherry and biscuits, and Ethel
Wilson watched me closely with her piercing blue eyes; during that visit
she pointed to her husband's photo and told me it was her father. Did I try
to correct her? I have wondered since.
"There was one more visit, three years later, this time with Malkin family
researcher, Barbara Wild. Ethel Wilson was now ninety-two and had suffered
several cerebral hemorrhages which had eraced almost all evidence of the
person that had once inhabited the body. The nurse insisted that she had
selected the blue dress herself to wear for company, but Ethel Wilson
remained silent and her opaque stare gave little sign of a knowing
presence. Later that year, at the funeral service and reception, I noted
that no one exhibited the grief that comes from a loss, aunt and cousin
having long departed." -- David Stouck
with Ethel Wilson in December 1975. He recalls:
"Young and unthinking, we went to the Arbutus Private Hospital in the evening
and found her lying prone on a bed with metal sides raised -- in Janet's words,
'like a sarcophagus.' She was barely awake, evidently sedated for the
night. It was depressing to see the elegant writer we greatly admired so
diminished by circumstances and we hurried away, promising ourselves and a
staff attendant that we would return another day. But the paraphernalia and
ambiance of a nursing home -- or perhaps just the glimpse of an arborite
table with a little plastic Christmas tree and some tattered issues of the
Reader's Digest in the hallway -- discouraged us from going back any time
soon.
"But when we did return, on a spring morning having arranged the visit in
advance, we found Ethel Wilson fresh from the hair salon in a smartly
tailored dress, ready with her nurse's assistance to entertain visitors for
tea. There was little conversation with the author who at eighty-eight was
profoundly deaf -- the nurse talked instead --, but there was poise and
self-possession in Ethel Wilson's august, watchful presence. I went by
myself one afternoon in 1977 and enjoyed dry sherry and biscuits, and Ethel
Wilson watched me closely with her piercing blue eyes; during that visit
she pointed to her husband's photo and told me it was her father. Did I try
to correct her? I have wondered since.
"There was one more visit, three years later, this time with Malkin family
researcher, Barbara Wild. Ethel Wilson was now ninety-two and had suffered
several cerebral hemorrhages which had eraced almost all evidence of the
person that had once inhabited the body. The nurse insisted that she had
selected the blue dress herself to wear for company, but Ethel Wilson
remained silent and her opaque stare gave little sign of a knowing
presence. Later that year, at the funeral service and reception, I noted
that no one exhibited the grief that comes from a loss, aunt and cousin
having long departed." -- David Stouck
Submitted on August 15, 2003 in By David.
