By: Marley Stuart

I started EcoStudio Foundation with dear friends—Mary Abbruzzese, Natalia Espinoza, and Lori Swanson Espinoza—to support frontline communities and conservation initiatives in Ecuador. As we send out our latest impact report, I’d like to share a story behind how it started.

In late 2020, my wife and I moved in with my grandparents to care for them. We had recently left New Orleans for Syracuse, where Kimberly had gotten into a graduate writing program. I embraced the chance to be close to family. West Hartford is only four and a half hours from Syracuse—or five plus, depending on how many back roads you take along the way. We began going back and forth on weekends.

Gil was 90 and in phenomenal shape for his age. A biologist and longtime teacher, he still drove, read voraciously, played tennis, and had only given up skiing because he could no longer pull on his boots. He also took care of Diane, his wife of over sixty years, who was living with advanced dementia. Diane was a triathlete, and at 86 she’d only recently stopped competing. She still maintained a hearty physical regime of walking, swimming, and cycling. Gil could help her climb onto her standing bicycle in the living room. He could get her through a shower. “No nurses” was a refrain. But he was having a hard time keeping up with the monumental task of care, and he welcomed our help—with meals, with Diane in the bathroom, on long walks and drives. For a semester, we drove back and forth. When Gil’s health took a turn, we stayed.

Covid had upended the world, and my work, coordinating study abroad programs in Ecuador, had come to a halt with the pandemic. The livelihoods of colleagues across Ecuador had been wrecked. EcoStudio had been a dream among friends for years—a nonprofit with creative programming that connects and supports high-impact projects in critical ecosystems. Now, with little prospect of life returning to normal, we could indulge that dream.

I’d wake before dawn to study corporate code and draft formation paperwork before helping Diane out of bed. On good days, I’d finish a full day of work before breakfast. I worked in a sunny breezeway in the front of their house. Diane slept late. The house grew warm. Gil’s collection of plants—philodendron, oxalis—quickened in the morning light. Diane tossed and turned, and there’d be a beeping on the monitor. We had a pressure pad beneath her side of the mattress, and a remote monitor rang if she moved. She still had her racer’s agility. I’d arrive to find her sitting up, or standing, midway across the room, one gnarled finger pointing the way. She’d brighten at the surprise of me, and I’d take her hand.

On good days, after breakfast (which happened at noon) and morning chores (teeth brushing, fresh diaper, change of clothes, pills, which took us into the afternoon), we’d drive to a favorite spot on the Farmington River. Diane weighed about as much as a large sack of rice. It was easy to carry her down the bank and drop her in. Soon she was swimming headlong against the current, pink swim cap bobbing above black water. Gil sat on the bank with his binoculars to grin us on. Back home, dinner, family photos. Gil earning his second master’s degree. Diane running her third Ironman. Difficulty breathing sent him into the hospital. I drove him to John Dempsey in falling snow. This was an urgent visit, but he so regretted it, and he pointed me down long, indirect roads to delay our arrival. We’d packed his iPad, copies of Scientific American, and a small bottle of wine. He stayed the night. The snow settled in. I got a call in the morning: large blood clots were discovered in his lungs. The wine was also discovered and we were lightly scolded. I drove him home with a prescription for blood thinners. That evening, the doctor called again: upon further review, they realized the masses in his lungs were tumors. He had lung cancer.

Spring returned. We transformed the yard into a fantasy of bird-feeders. Gil had a good view through the glass doors at the foot of the bed and kept the binoculars close. In late March, he told me to gather bluebells from the yard. They hadn’t come up yet. So I brought him daffodils, which he pulled apart on his chest, magnifying glass in one claw. Anthers, pistils, stamens: one last time to look. He died three days later, at home surrounded by family. Afterwards (bluebells opening), we stayed with Diane for two months, wheelchairing her around the neighborhood and chattering like squirrels. Eventually, she moved into to a memory care home for professional care, and her final days were filled with new friends and social activity. I feel lucky to have spent that winter and spring with them at home. These were the best days of my life.

Sure, it was hard. Kimberly and I took shifts sleeping. We spent late nights soothing Gil from hallucinations and hours battling Diane in the shower. Sometimes they slept until 10 or so, but there were many restless mornings, too. I set up my tent in the yard, among the bird-feeders, to nap and recuperate. Kimberly took her remote classes in the basement before emerging in a blast of positivity to make lunch and brush Diane’s hair, then go for a walk. It was exhausting. But we did it together, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I launched EcoStudio from that tent in their yard, my laptop catching a whiff of the wifi signal. Neither Diane nor Gil lived long enough to see EcoStudio fluoresce, but this dream began in their indomitable spirit.

Care is a circle. I am indebted to my colleagues who saw me through that time. And nothing would be possible without Kimberly’s tireless love and support.

Please read our latest impact report, which highlights the good work accomplished to date. 

More to come.