by Anthony Cordasco

I found myself thinking about painting the pig today.

A 2×12” pine board known as a fascia forms the end of the ceiling joists for the small overhang on the 1950s addition to our colonial stone farmhouse. In its early days it held the rain gutter and a flood light. The gutter is half gone now, the remaining segment has no end cap, and a large, unprotected section of the fascia has rotted and fallen away. That the fascia board could fall into such disrepair on a house I have meticulously restored to pre-Revolutionary War authenticity reflects my current mental state. Three years of dealing with the stark reality of my wife’s FTD has left me with little motivation. When I try to rise to the task, overwhelm causes me to “paint the pig” instead.

The phrase “paint the pig” originated with a college girlfriend, whose roommate, when faced with an intimidating workload, would pull out her art supplies and her piggy bank, and lose herself in painting the pig instead. My girlfriend, following her roommate’s lead, also took up painting the pig whenever she faced overwhelm. In my case, the pig is imaginary, and is painted symbolically through inactivity.

Nature seems to love human neglect. Last spring a blackbird decided that the rotted opening in the fascia would provide an ideal habitat. At first I only heard the blackbird’s early preparations, but I soon caught her red-handed (or rather, yellow-footed), disappearing deep inside the eaves of the overhang with straw and twigs to build her nest.

Eventually, I rose to the occasion, prepared to defend against the invasion of my home. If only I had heeded the advice a boat builder once offered me – “If you don’t have time to do the job right, you’ll have to make time to do the job twice” – I might have saved myself a lot of trouble. But while I lacked both time and desire to do it, I chose evicting the bird over painting the pig.

For my first attempt, I stapled a piece of leftover chicken wire over the opening, and then sank back into my comfortable depression. That fix lasted only a few minutes, as the obstinate bird wriggled its way through a small opening. So I affixed a second section of mesh over top of the first to permanently seal the opening – then a third, then a fourth. The blackbird remained the victor, putting the finishing touches on an architectural masterpiece that rivaled my own home.

Returning to the scene of the crime for what I hoped would be the last time, I hung yet another section of wire mesh, secured a piece of plywood over top, and left the ladder leaned against my bulwark. From my second floor window, I saw that I had finally staved off the bird, who nonetheless made repeated fly-bys and valiant attempts at circumventing my blockade.

I saw in that blackbird my own determination and dilemma: Both of us, repeatedly throwing ourselves at a problem, desperate for a solution. I have the tools and skills to fix anything broken on my farm, but I cannot fix what ails my wife. Her disease, once something I approached as a problem I might “solve” through dietary changes, vitamins, exercise, memory games, doctor consultations, tests, and prayers, is something that persistence and problem-solving cannot heal.

Just like my adversary, the bird, eventually I had to surrender to the loss of my old nest and muster the resolve to construct an alternate dwelling. While I will never abandon the beautiful memory of all that my wife and I built together before FTD, the simple and ineffably sad reality is that I must also find a way to inhabit this life we have now.

It’s the middle of the night, and I am anxious for morning, when I can see if the blackbird is perched in the tree near her former nest, still searching for a solution, unwilling to abandon that which she began. My human mind no longer strives to reclaim what has been lost to FTD. But come morning, I will persist at the one thing I know I can control – being the memory-keeper and attentive caregiver for the woman I love so deeply. And on days when it all feels too much? I’ll give myself grace and permission to paint the pig.