Various Miracles

I am so deeply grateful for the rapid Covid screening test, which allows me to be swabbed at Doug’s care home, confirms that I am still negative, allows me to visit him daily.

The weather has been gorgeous and I was able to take Doug outside, into the fresh air and sunshine (until the home went into Outbreak. Because . . . what . . . the Covid pandemic wasn’t enough?!).

These past weeks I have watched poplar leaves and crab apple blossoms unfurl, maple buds transform into leaves, hillsides turn from grey to blue to green, ducklings and goslings grow by the day. 

Mid-May I celebrated my birthday; in 2012 I celebrated with Doug, in Ypres, at the Cat Festival.  We rented bikes to cycle to battlefields and cemeteries, and as he was filling in the rental form he turned to ask me what the date was. ‘It’s my Birthday!’ I reminded him. It wasn’t supposed to be a trick, or a test - but, alas, it was. ‘My Birthday’ wasn’t any help to him, he had no idea what date my birthday was. 

There were other signs of his memory challenges prior to our noticing and worrying enough to go to the doctor: he forgot to come to a reading & talk I was giving with Dame Gillian Beer at Clare College, Cambridge University (one of the highlights of my time as a Phd student), then was worried and angry when I got home as he’d had no idea where I was. He was late for many meetings. He grew increasingly confused about where we lived, and which fork in the path to take on a same-every-single-day route.

I would like to forgive myself for the times I was irritated that he was (apparently) so scatty and disorganised, or the evenings I arrived home from work and found breakfast dishes still stacked by the sink, or the days when he appeared to have accomplished absolutely nothing, or the first time he wasn’t able to navigate with map and compass.  Also, I would like him to be able to forgive me for the times I argued that he needed to shave, and worried at his seemingly obsession with packing and re-packing, and wished out loud for a cup of tea he was no longer able to prepare. 

There is so much I wish I’d known when we started; there is so much I have learned. 

Name tags work.  (Even after he was no longer able to read my name, staff and some residents at his care home didn’t have to wonder who I was.)

Poetry works. (For us, poetry he knew and loved when he was well, some of which he continued to recognise, at least in part, for a long time. Rhyme works. Shakespeare works.)

Music works. 

Love works. I can’t love him well again, but I can love seeing the sunshine on his face, love knowing that he is well cared for, love holding his hand, love the sound - still, occasionally - of his laughter. 

I am deeply grateful for fiction, which both transports me and grounds me, and for my friends, who do the same. Miracles indeed. 

(The title of this blog post is that of a Carol Shields story.)