November 18, 2019
I opened the door leading from my husband's residence to the courtyard, in case that was the direction he wanted to go as we wandered down the hallway slowly. But he didn't want to head outside, apparently. He stopped in his tracks, pulled me back towards him, and "air punched" me in the side with a grunt, pulling his "punch."
"Hey," I joked, gently poking him back.
"Fun!" he grinned.
Every time something like that happens, it takes my breath away. How is it that, somewhere in his mind, he can still have a sense of humor sometimes? Can still pull up a word or two on occasion? One of the caregivers told me that the day before, he'd been following her around and "sneaked up" behind her as she was taking care of another resident. She knew he was back there, of course, but she pretended to jump when she turned around and "saw" him.
"Are you trying to scare me?" she joked.
"Arrrrr...you gonna die!" he teased mischievously and grinned, and they both had a chuckle.
How is it that he can still occasionally be a big tease, a rascal? How is it that his personality still shines through engagingly, even though his ability to chat is gone? How is it that he can be affectionate one moment, and lost in space the next? This disease is so infuriating! If only he could talk to me, explain it to me, tell me what he's thinking and feeling.
It's such a heartbreaking thing to think of this intelligent man imprisoned somewhere in his mind, a captive of misfiring synapses and degenerating brain cells. What if he's locked up, trying to get out, and can't? What if he's trying to communicate, but the words won't come? These are the kinds of thoughts that aren't helpful, I know, but they insist on insinuating themselves into my consciousness, unbidden and unwelcome and horrible. They are the stuff nightmares are made of.
Thursday, December 5, 2019
Tuesday, November 12, 2019
Time Is on Our Side
I haven't been writing very much lately. This is partly because my husband's situation seems stable right now, so there's not much to report. But it's also because I've been in another deep blue funk part of my grieving process.
Yes, I know there have been several of those. But that's how grief is. One day, you think you've got a handle on things and are "doing better." The next, you feel like you've been hit by a truck and don't even want to get out of bed. But you do. You put one foot in front of the other, and you keep going. This long goodbye is difficult and overwhelming and heartbreaking and tearful.
But, the other day, I was holding my husband's hand and looking into his eyes* and stroking his cheek and listening to tunes with him. I thought about last year, when he had sepsis and almost left me to go to his Forever Home with Jesus. And I thought about the amount of time that has passed since then, and all the kisses and hugs and tender moments that we wouldn't have had the opportunity to share if he'd succumbed to that infection.
I realized what a blessing it is to have been given this extra time to be together, to enjoy each other's company, to say with our eyes (and with words, in my case) the things that a lot of people don't have the opportunity to share, when death comes without warning. A lot of healing and forgiveness and understanding has taken place in my heart and, I hope and believe, in his. What a gift!
If you still have your special someone with you, I hope you won't take each other for granted or allow the busyness of life or demands of others to cause you to put each other on the back burner. "Later" may never come. Treasure every minute together, every adventure experienced, every memory made. They're a gift to you.
*It isn't always the easiest thing to establish meaningful eye contact with him at this point. I move my head around to try to get him to look at me, but he has a tendency to look away, mostly. This "failure to make eye contact" is a progression of the disease. So when I say I look into his eyes, I mean that literally, and it doesn't mean he's actively looking back. But sometimes he does, and I see tenderness there. That, my friends, is an emotional moment for me!
Yes, I know there have been several of those. But that's how grief is. One day, you think you've got a handle on things and are "doing better." The next, you feel like you've been hit by a truck and don't even want to get out of bed. But you do. You put one foot in front of the other, and you keep going. This long goodbye is difficult and overwhelming and heartbreaking and tearful.
But, the other day, I was holding my husband's hand and looking into his eyes* and stroking his cheek and listening to tunes with him. I thought about last year, when he had sepsis and almost left me to go to his Forever Home with Jesus. And I thought about the amount of time that has passed since then, and all the kisses and hugs and tender moments that we wouldn't have had the opportunity to share if he'd succumbed to that infection.
I realized what a blessing it is to have been given this extra time to be together, to enjoy each other's company, to say with our eyes (and with words, in my case) the things that a lot of people don't have the opportunity to share, when death comes without warning. A lot of healing and forgiveness and understanding has taken place in my heart and, I hope and believe, in his. What a gift!
If you still have your special someone with you, I hope you won't take each other for granted or allow the busyness of life or demands of others to cause you to put each other on the back burner. "Later" may never come. Treasure every minute together, every adventure experienced, every memory made. They're a gift to you.
*It isn't always the easiest thing to establish meaningful eye contact with him at this point. I move my head around to try to get him to look at me, but he has a tendency to look away, mostly. This "failure to make eye contact" is a progression of the disease. So when I say I look into his eyes, I mean that literally, and it doesn't mean he's actively looking back. But sometimes he does, and I see tenderness there. That, my friends, is an emotional moment for me!
Thursday, October 10, 2019
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.
.
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.
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.
.
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. |
"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. |
Tuesday, October 8, 2019
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.
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.
Saturday, October 5, 2019
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.
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.
Sunday, September 8, 2019
The Car Show
A couple of weeks ago, there was a car show at my husband's place (I like to call it that. Don't you think it sounds better than "facility"?). Now, if there was anything in the world my husband enjoyed as much as swap meets, it was car shows. We have belonged to several car clubs over the years. Some memberships were formal, some not so much; but, all were fun, entered into with gusto, and included not-to-be-missed special events.
My husband dragged me and our reluctant children to early-morning swap meets to look up one aisle and down the next for that one elusive car part or other. There was much moaning, complaining, and begging to be left sleeping at home in warm beds, to no avail. These car swaps were a hobby shared with his brother, so it was a family affair.
We went to car shows, rallies, show 'n shines, and even a couple of "national tours" with CHVA (Contemporary Historical Vehicle Association), one of which our Mt. Shasta Region club organized. We drove our 1936 Cadillac Fleetwood to Reno, where the tour started after the Reno Swap Meet during Hot August Nights. Our caravan of fabulous chariots wound up through some lovely backroad areas in the Sierras, dropped down into the Sacramento Valley, through Redding, over to Eureka, and down the coast to the Bay Area, where the Redwood Region club had organized their annual classic car show. My husband served as a judge there. He knew his automobiles. I tell you all this because I want to make sure you understand my husband's passion for all things automobile.
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| Sweet Ride! |
I was crushed and saddened. I could hardly keep from crying and was grateful for sunglasses and fake smiles. What a letdown! I began to wish I hadn't attended the event, because now all of our past excellent memories related to this hobby would be forever marred by the overriding remembrance of this, possibly last together, car show.
Returning to his place, I could see that he was exhausted from the effort. The caregivers were anxious for good news about his reactions, but I had none to deliver. And then one of them suggested taking him out in his wheelchair and trying it again. What a great idea. Why didn't I think of that? So off we went, at a much faster clip this time and with race car noises coming from me (don't judge me).
Friends, what a difference it made. I won't say that he suddenly rose from the chair, named off the makes and models, examined what was under the hoods, and kicked the tires. Because he didn't. But he most certainly seemed to be enjoying the ride, at least. And seeing a fleeting smile on his face now and then made it all worthwhile. Instead of a bummer being the icing on this cake, it was topped off with an attitude of gratitude. And isn't that so much better?
1 Thessalonians 5:18
Saturday, September 7, 2019
Musings About Life
I saw a post from a friend on Facebook today. It showed two children playing under a young tree, then the two young people holding hands as the tree grows, then the husband and wife embracing as the tree reaches maturity, then the elderly couple with canes standing next to each other under the same tree, then the husband sitting next to the wife's grave under the tree which is beginning to die, and then both graves under the dead tree. Food for thought.
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| The Two of Us |
Life. It's so simple when you're a child, so full of possibility and excitement when you're young and anticipating your future. You find comfort in each other as you mature as a couple, assuming you've been blessed with a loving partner. You expect to take care of each other through your "golden years." And when life ends, it generally ends in the usual way: First one of you leaves the other, and then -- lonely and brokenhearted -- the one who stays behind waits until it's time to go, too.
It sounds a bit depressing, doesn't it? But it isn't, really. It's life. It begins, it unfolds, it ends. Look at a flower, for instance. The seed is placed in the ground. Pretty soon, the plant starts to grow. Exciting! And then there's a bud where a flower waits to make it's appearance. The anticipation! Seemingly from one day to the next, the flower has bloomed. It's so beautiful. It smells fantastic. The color is brilliant, captivating. And then it fades and dries up. Its seed falls to the ground.
But that isn't the end of the story! The seed lies dormant until the rains come, the sun shines, and it's time for it to germinate. Then -- impossibly, magically -- a new plant springs up. Exciting! Rebirth. Hope.
Death isn't the end of our story, either. Our Hope is in the Lord. Our Future is with Him in the place He has prepared for us. On that day, He will welcome us to our forever home. There will be no sickness, no death, no tears, no sorrow. And so, no matter how beaten down and sad and worn out I might feel at times during our present hardship, I have a Friend. I know I am not alone. There's always Another with me, standing next to me, holding me up, and urging me on. I have a Hope, and I have a Future.
There's nothing so lost He can't find it. There's nothing so broken He can't mend it. There's nothing so dead He can't breathe life into it. His love never fails.
Psalm 136:1
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