Just Being

I didn’t spend time with Doug on Saturday. I visited him Friday & Sunday; in-between I was at an annual cottage retreat with his friends, who have super generously welcomed me into their circle.

I sat in the garden in a deck chair with a gorgeous view of a quiet lake and read. I snuggled into a comfy sofa inside (with a slightly different gorgeous view) and read. I sat on the beach (again, a slightly different gorgeous view) and read. I wasn’t 100 pc anti-social; I played Kubb, swam, boated, drank (coffee! alcohol! mango juice!), ate (far more than necessary . . .), sat in the sauna, swam again, caught up on two years’ worth of news . . . 

When I came home on Sunday, stopping to visit Doug en route, I was fully relaxed. Completely recharged. The only person who was worried about my not having spent time with Doug was me. 

As much as it could hurt that he no longer has any sense of who I am, or when he last saw me, I am truly thankful that my absence causes him no stress. When I am away for a longer period of time my sister visits in my stead and he reaches for her hand, laughs with her, is just as pleased to see her as he is to see me. 

Twice this summer my Mum and I brought Doug back home. That is, to the house where he and I lived together until he moved into long term care. (“Home” to Doug is now the care home, but until quite recently, when he chanted “I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home,” he was - I think - referring to his childhood home physically located north north of Toronto, and temporally located in the late 70s, early 80s. The house his Dad sold when he, himself, moved into long term care. A house I have driven by once thinking it might bring comfort to Doug to see it; it had been renovated to such an extent it no longer resembled his house.)

Although I told Doug where we were going (even a short car ride causes him a lot of anxiety), there was no anticipation on his part. And once we returned to the care home there was no indication that he was holding on to the remembrance of his day out.

But in the moment it was clear (to me) that he was enjoying himself. The ducks on the beach, Piper on his lap, ice cream, fresh local strawberries, a home made wild blueberry muffin, a stroll through the garden pausing to look at each bright flower, the sunlight on the lake, the breeze on his face. We couldn’t come inside (he can no longer navigate stairs, or even a ramp), but that doesn’t matter - he spends hours of each day inside and the beauty of this house is its outside. 

If I ever need a reminder of what it truly means to ‘live in the moment’ I only have to watch Doug. I am so thankful that he appears to be content, and that so many of his moments appear to be filled with joy.