Me and My Shadow

Tenderly touching.

We walked in the courtyard slowly, as we often do, hand-in-hand. Tender touch. It made me happy, and he seemed to like it as well. This day, he had greeted me, almost, and danced a few cheerful steps with me. He was having a good day.

We turned down the path, the sun at our backs, and suddenly he looked down and came to a screeching halt. He pointed to the ground. I looked. It was my shadow. My shadow was freaking him out. Did he think it was a dark, featureless being rising from the bowels of the earth?

"It's my shadow, honey," I explained, demonstrating how it moved when I moved and pointing out that he had one, too. It was right next to mine, but the angle made mine rather tall and his much shorter. Just the opposite of how things really were. He shifted his weight tentatively, puzzled, observing the moving shapes on the smooth cement.

Satisfied, or having lost interest, or not remembering what we were looking at and why, he lifted his head and walked on with me at his side, hand-in-hand. Tenderly touching. I hoped, somehow, he felt happy, too.

Walk the Line

Part of the Courtyard

The courtyard at the care facility is large and meandering. There are plantings to see and railings to touch and murals to cipher. There are park benches and outdoor living rooms and tables with umbrellas to sit at. The walkway is wide and made of cement rather than stepping stones. I'm sure that prevents any number of trip and fall mishaps for the residents.

My husband and I were taking a little walk in the courtyard, and suddenly we came to an area where two sections of cement met with a metal seam. He stopped dead in his tracks, looking down, hesitating. Because people with Alzheimer's don't necessarily perceive these things the way most people would -- that it's just a seam in the cement and not a drop-off point posing a danger to life and limb -- I knew that he wasn't going to step over the line without encouragement.

"It's okay, honey. You'll be fine. Watch me," I said, holding his hand, stepping over the line and adding, "See? Come with me."

He seemed to ponder his options a moment or two, then raised his right leg high as he tentatively stepped up and over the perceived barrier. The left leg followed with a little encouragement, and off we went. Slowly.

It isn't the first time he's seen a cement seam or crack as a potential threat (at least, I think that's what is going on, since he doesn't verbalize his concern). He used to pause at cracks and seams for a split second sometimes when we were walking on the sidewalks downtown, in our previous life. He also stopped at the curbs when entering or exiting crosswalks, hesitantly stepping sideways either down or up, feeling the distance carefully to avoid casually stepping into a chasm or failing to lift his leg enough to clear the apparently very tall curbs.

In a strange way, it's similar to walking with a small child just beginning to explore the world, experiencing new things. 'Here we are at a crosswalk, darling. Stop and look both ways! Step off the curb carefully. It's very far, isn't it?' and at the other side, 'Up you go! That's right. Oops, you need to lift your foot very high, don't you?' Except that with the small child, it's a happy thing that means growth and development; whereas, with my husband, it's a melancholy thing that means exactly the opposite.