I’m strong. I’m a strong women who comes from a line of strong women. I’m capable, in many ways. But there are moments, sometimes day-long, when my strength falters, and I don’t feel capable at all. It was Doug's Birthday this week. He turned 66. ("Too young, too young, it's not fair!!" my inside voice ranted.) After a deep breath, I remind myself that all will be well.
A friend sent me an email with this subject line: “ALL WILL BE WELL. Louise Penny said so.” She is a new friend, but she knows me well. Well enough, at any rate, to understand my love of hope, of mantras, of reframing, (as well as my love of reading, writing, scrapbooking, baking, and eating). She recommended an issue of Chatelaine in which author Penny speaks of her faith and how it helped her as her husband’s dementia progressed.
Last year a different new friend gave me a painted lantern filled with mini solar lights. It sits on my sun room coffee table, soaking up the day’s sunshine, and when I come home from visiting Doug in the evening, the tiny lights are brightly glowing, taking on the jewel tones of a hummingbird and hibiscus flower. Even Piper knows how much I like this greeting - she hasn’t ever pushed it off the table. (Everything else is fair game.)
This is what I see when I look around just this one room of my house: two quilts and three pieces of art all made by friends, and a tea cup, a coffee cup, a stack of books, a fuzzy blanket, a plant, a comfy chair - all presents. And everywhere, everywhere, physical reminders of Doug: the bookcases he made, notes in his handwriting, his well-used cookbooks, his shelves of non-fiction, artwork from his life before me, and artefacts from his days in various Alzheimer’s groups.
So much of what my friends give me is intangible: the hope, the reassurance, the emphatic listening, a weekly dinner routine, a push to go for a walk, or snowshoe, or ski. It’s lovely to have these physics reminders surrounding me too. I am not alone. All will be well.
In spite of the possibilities that Doug has lost because of dementia (too young, as you say), I am thinking about how lucky he is to have found you when he did, for you both to have the time you did and do, and for him to still be so loved, to have you live admidst the things he built and the life he made and remember and value the person he is. I know that it must seem very lonely where you are sometimes, and it's never going to be consolation enough, but also it's everything.
ReplyDeleteYes, yes, we are both so lucky! And yes, it's everything.
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