The Gross Banana

Lately, unless there's a trauma of some kind, it seems as though one day blends into the next, and time passes by almost imperceptibly. Has it been a week since a notable event? A month? It's a blur. You think you're going to remember milestones in the disease's progress, but sometimes you don't notice they've occurred until later. If a milestone happens suddenly, you take note. But it doesn't always happen that way. Sometimes, abilities disappear slowly over time. Then they're gone, and you wonder how and when they left.
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For instance, now that my husband is basically non-verbal, I've been trying to remember when it was, exactly, that he stopped talking. A year? A year and a half? He still says a word or two now and then, but many of our hours-long visits end without his uttering a single syllable, let alone a string of them together.

2 years ago this week
First day of our last cruise together.
Yes, I was certifiable.

This morning, a post that seemed humorous at the time appeared in my "Facebook memories." It was from two years ago today, October 10, 2017. The post reads like this:

"Yuck, this banana tastes gross!" [him] "That's because it's plantain..." [me]

He had seen the "banana" on the counter, peeled it, and taken a bite. If you've ever taken a bite of raw plantain, I'm sure you'll agree that it isn't the sweetest "banana" you've ever tasted. It's more like a raw potato. But once it's made into tostones, it's delicious! I digress.

When I posted that, it was meant to demonstrate a hilarious, "fun with Alzheimer's," part of daily living with him. In retrospect, though, it's a poignant reminder that, just two years ago, he was wandering around our home, peeling his own "bananas," and able to verbalize a complaint in a complete sentence. He was feeding himself, using the restroom, dressing himself (sometimes comically, but still), going places with me, and doing things.

You may have noticed that I seem a little melancholy these days. That's because I am. My emotions, normally packaged rather neatly in a nice box with a beautiful ribbon, are causing an itchy turmoil just under the surface. And sometimes, when I sing to him or chat with him or read to him or simply think about him and of days gone by, I suddenly notice that my feelings have managed to escape and are overflowing out of my eyes and down my cheeks. I think that's okay. It has to be, because there's really nothing I can do about it.

2 years ago this week
Leaving San Francisco on our last cruise together.

How Are You Doing?

The question most often posed to me, next to "How's your husband?" ("Doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances"), is "How are you doing?" I appreciate each and every demonstration of care and concern, and I receive them all as being sincerely meant from the heart, even if they are in passing. I mean it. Thank you so much!

Commonly, in response, I plaster a big smile on my face and say, "Hanging in there!" Yes, I really am hanging in there. By my fingernails. I am not whining about that, nor am I complaining about my lot in life. I am simply worn out. I am worn out physically. I am worn out emotionally. I am weary of this long, stressful, depressing battle. Especially in the past few months, I am realizing that navigating through difficult times is completely exhausting, an exhaustion I am beginning to think might be permanent.

I worry about my husband and wonder how much longer he will have to suffer, though I continue to hope and pray for healing and restoration. It is despiriting to visit him in a facility instead of being able to care for him at home as I had hoped to do. It is so hard to watch him disappearing before my very eyes, his dignity stripped from him, his ability to communicate meaningfully long gone. Poor man! I wonder how many more pieces of my heart there are left to shatter.

But, really, how many times can you hint at these things without discouraging and burdening others, even close friends? People have their own trials to deal with, some of which are so much more exacting, exhausting, debilitating, and demoralizing. I know this, and so I don't tend to dwell on my troubles "in public." Well, not usually. But you did ask, so it's all your fault!

We "do life" better in community, where we can bear one another's burdens. We can pray for, encourage, and care for each other. We can offer words of comfort and shoulders to cry on, even if they are figurative shoulders from miles or continents away. So, again, thank you for holding us up in prayer all these years. Thank you for being there, for asking how we're doing, for thinking about us, and for being concerned for our welfare. I hope you know I'm here for you, too. And if my husband were to miraculously be his real self again, so would he be. Because there is nothing he wouldn't do for a friend.

They Can't Be Everywhere

The other day, there was an incident in the courtyard at my husband's facility. I didn't realize how much it had affected me until just now, when I decided to write about it. Rerunning it in my mind, my heart rate increased. My breathing shallowed and sped up. Trauma. I think I might have a case of PTSD with the accumulation of stress. But back to my story.

It was a glorious fall day, sunny but not too warm, the golden sunshine peeking through the leaves that rustled softly in the gentle breeze. The Hubster and I were walking slowly, so very slowly, hand-in-hand, down the walkway to the main courtyard area.

Looking around, I noticed one of the new residents walking across the way towards the patio chairs that were in the sun next to the railing. I thought nothing of it. He picked up one of the chairs as if to move it to a shaded area closeby. I thought nothing of that, either, as it happens all the time. But then I saw that he wasn't stopping. He was going faster and faster and faster, a panicked look on his face. Realizing he was unable to slow down or stop, I started to run towards him. One of the caregivers also saw what was happening and was running from the opposite direction. Too late! As if in slow motion, I helplessly watched him trip before I or the caregiver could reach him. The chair flew from his hands, and over it he rolled. Slowly, so slowly, but also so, so quickly.

Before he could right himself to sit up, the caregiver and I had both arrived, comforting him as best we could and preventing him from trying to stand in case anything was broken. The nurse was called to assess his injuries; which, thankfully, turned out to be minor scrapes by bruises. He hadn't hit his head, but it had been a close call.

The staff at the facility is wonderful. The caregivers are compassionate and well trained. But they can't be everywhere, and they don't have eyes in the backs of their heads. It only takes an instant for something like this to happen. It can happen even if you're standing right next to a person. It's the downside of allowing the residents the freedom to wander, but the alternative would be absolute confinement and restriction.

It's bad enough to be locked in a prison inside your mind, as these folks are, without also being forced to stay in a wheelchair or in bed, in restraints, while they are still capable of moving about. That would be absolutely horrible. These residents are living the best lives they can under the circumstances. That's what I want for my husband, and that's what their loved ones want for them, too.