Artist in residence spotlight: Actor, Caregiver, and Thinker - Act 2

The Philosophy of Dangerman  

Marsha — the love of my life for forty-five years — gave me the nickname “Dangerman” long before her diagnosis. It began as a joke about my anxious, ever-alert way of moving through the world. She’d sing, to the tune of the Spiderman theme: 

“Dangerman, Dangerman, he sees danger where no one else can!”  

What started as humour became foreshadowing. I’ve now fully embodied that role — the anxious caregiver, watching for every danger, real or imagined.  

In my twenties, when I first read Camus, I was already rehearsing as The Actor. Marsha and I met at rehearsals for Simon Gray’s play “Otherwise Engaged.” I played David Hench, the obstreperous youth; Marsha prompted my lines from backstage. She’s been prompting the better parts of my life ever since.  

The Theatre of the Absurd  

Absurdity is the stage; daily life is the script. Caregiving is filled with conversations that have slipped beyond the borders of ordinary meaning:  

“I’m going home — up here, over there!”  

These moments don’t belong to linear time. They live in another plane where logic can’t reach.  

Here the caregiver steps into the role of Actor — not to correct, but to connect:  

“Over there? Great. Hey darling, let’s check out the new show on TV, over here.”  

Meaning is no longer held in words alone, but in tone, tenor, trust, and shared humanity.  

For Marsha, emotional knowing now sticks better than rational explanation. I’ve learned to soften my voice — shifting from director (“Come here. Do this. Move there.”) which only agitates, to partner (“I’m going out the gate. Are you coming with me?”).  

Patience, learned late in life, has become my new scene. And Marsha, always, is still my prompter.  

Camus’ The Actor  

Camus’ Actor lives fully in the moment, face to face with the absurd. Dementia makes that absurdity concrete: lost and present, looping, forgetting, day after day after day. Yet the Actor doesn’t despair. He embraces each fleeting scene — helping someone through a gate, repeating reassurances, saying “I love you” again and again, even when the words echo into silence.  

The Actor’s quiet rebellion is this: “This scene won’t last — but I will live it and give it meaning anyway.”  

The absurd fills each day:  

Marsha asking to drive again.  

A can of corn in the fridge, with a spoon and knife.  

The same sweater chosen every morning because it matters to her.  

In this theatre, identity can feel swallowed by the caregiving role. Camus reminds me: I don’t have to find cosmic meaning. I can live meaning into existence — scene by scene — for both of us.  

No Intermission  

The play is long. The acting is hard. Dementia offers no intermission.  

The Actor’s strength lies in staying present — not in the past or future. Each line delivered gently. Each gesture a small rebellion against despair.  

“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.” — Camus  

Like Sisyphus, I push the same stone again and again — lifting, guiding, repeating what another has forgotten. It isn’t meaningless; it is love enacted.  

For caregivers, acknowledging reality is the first courage: the situation isn’t fair, simple, or controllable. Love doesn’t erase suffering, but it gives it a human face. There may not be a fix — only the act of presence. 

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Tobias Jesso is a retired technology consultant with a master’s degree in computer science and a lengthy career spanning over four decades. He is especially fond of his work for TRIUMF, Canada's Particle Physics Laboratory. 

Beyond his professional achievements, he is a devoted husband and father. Tobias and his wife, Marsha, have navigated the challenges of life, including Marsha's cognitive decline. Tobias approaches this journey with love and patience. At age 70, he continues to embrace the lifelong journey of becoming a better person, finding inspiration and wisdom in his spouse's daily teachings. Tobias states, Marsha teaches me as much now as ever and the lessons while hard are infinitely rewarding.