The Call

Random fun fact: I used to think I could be a romance novelist. In 1999 I was a Finalist in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart contest which seemed like a big deal at the time. That novel, and the others I wrote, were never published. (Never mind, they were great practice for everything I’ve written since.) When I went to conventions, there was always at least one panel or workshop about what to do when you received The Call (an offer from a publisher, delivered by phone). It never came, but I kept the list of recommended questions by the phone for years, just in case.

That's me! (Bottom left hand corner. In 1999, when I was blonde.)

When our Care Coordinator put Doug on the Crisis List for a bed in a care home, I understood that it could be months before a suitable bed would become free. In fact, it was only weeks before  we got that Call.

It was a big shock. I hadn’t expected it to happen so soon, or for the decision to be so difficult. That’s when I ought to have had a list of questions waiting beside the phone. What I knew was that my options were to accept that bed, or to decline the offer, at which point his name would be removed from all wait lists and we would have to wait three months before we could reapply, at which point he’d go back to the bottom.  

The person I most needed to talk to - Doug - was of, course, unavailable for the discussion. 

It would have been easy to ring my best friends, but I knew they would tell me to put on my own oxygen mask first, to allow myself the chance to have a full night of sleep, to let professionals help with the heaving lifting, that I wasn’t earning earning points for endurance, that no one would judge me-

Instead I sent an email to four of Doug’s closest friends, trusting his long-term friends would put his needs first. “I’m not even sure what I’m asking you. What should I do? Is it too soon?” They all wrote back to say, as gently and lovingly as possible, “Now is the time. Take the bed.”

I also emailed Doug’s neurologist in Ottawa, who replied: Louise: This is a heartbreaking situation, as you know.  In my experience, long-term care is recommended if someone needs assistance with all daily activities, including bathing and toileting. Long-term care is recommended if someone is too difficult to lift up at home. Individuals can remain at home with additional private homecare services, which are expensive, and may or may not be available in your area. The decision must come from your heart, as only you can know if care at home is adequate and sustainable at this time.

So I did what I do when faced with decisions, found a used envelope and wrote out a list of pros and cons. 

Then I rang my sister, and my Mum, and my best friends, and Doug’s family.

Then I cancelled that morning’s respite care, and we went to the Farmers’ Market. We bought butter tarts, and sat on the grass in the late autumn sun to eat them, then walked along the waterfront admiring the fall flora and foliage. 

There was a third option: I managed to negotiate an extra two weeks with Doug at home, and a care home only a third of the distance away. This allowed us to spend Thanksgiving at home together. 

And with hindsight, we are ever so lucky to have made that choice. He was ready for long term care, with professionals to care for him, and so many new people with whom to socialise. Had I declined that offer, he’d have been at the bottom of the wait lists when Covid struck - and the following year would have been very different for both of us. 

Time

Doug is now officially in ‘Late Stage’ Dementia using the labelling system that divides dementia into Early, Middle, and Late stages. Other systems have five numerical categories, others seven. On every chart I’ve looked at, in books and online, there is little difference towards the end. 

2013: Bricked off door, abandoned church

Four years ago I thought this would be the worst news and I dreaded the day I’d be told. But when the care home doctor confirmed it last week as we discussed reducing some of Doug’s medications, it was just news. Not good news, but not the worst. Just a fact. It’s a label, with all the benefits and disadvantages that come with so many labels. 

2022: when testing oneself for Covid isn't the least bit unusual 

The medications we’ve decided to decrease with a view of stopping altogether are intended to slow memory loss. Did they work? Impossible for me to know. There was no control group for comparison, and the challenges of Covid added to my difficulty in judging (guessing) how effective they were. I’m not sorry we tried them; I’d make the same choice again just in case they did give him - and us - a little more time with a slightly better memory. 

Time. Time is what I most long for. Time denied the Ukrainian mother-to-be and her child who were killed in the bombing of their maternity hospital. Time is also what I most celebrate. Individual moments of clarity are all the more precious when they emerge from a fog. 

2015: Walking the Weaver's Way, Norfolk

Two of Doug’s fellow residents passed away last week: both were 100 years old. Long lives, and, from the little I saw and learned, good lives until the last few years. They both sometimes sat with Doug in the dining room. The gentlewoman always asked for “more salt! more salt!” and if I tried to get away with pretending to shake some on her meal she called me on it. If I live to be 100 I hope I'm still that sharp! When she wanted to get someone’s attention she’d clatter her false teeth; it was the most annoying sound and I’m sure she knew it, and did it deliberately. Ha! The gentleman was a local hero, and leaves behind many improvements to our community. I am grateful for the short time I knew them both. 

Time. Time in a care home seems as fluid as time in one of Munro’s short stories. It slows and loops and speeds and reverses . . . and it feels exaggerated in such a liminal setting. There are two people who actively enjoy watching the news on TV, but if neither of them is there, and everyone else agrees, I turn the channel to the home and garden network, where people renovate an entire house in half an hour or build one from scratch in a sped-up 100 days, or to the game show channel where men and women from the 1970s make risqué jokes of that era. 

2022: last week

This is the week, if weather predictions come true, that winter will magically turn to spring. Temperatures will jump above zero, and precipitation will change from snow to rain. This is the time of year when I feel the most hope.  

“What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” asks Mary Oliver. I’m optimistic that there is still time for me to answer well, to make a real difference. 

Everything

Dearest Doug,

You were fast asleep today for the entire duration of my visit. I held your hands - I love holding your hands; I love your hands in mine. Usually I can, and do, rouse you. I’m growing used to your eyes being closed when you’re awake, but today you were fast asleep. I chatted to you - I hope my voice brought you some comfort, on some level. 

I would have liked to talk to you about the war, practiced the correct pronunciation of Kyiv, discussed the Vigil that is being held in town this evening. I would have liked to have talked about Covid for the past two years as it arrived, unfolded, changed our way of life. I know people have been glued to television sets; I know you would have been devouring the Toronto Star and the Guardian. You would have contributed some Op-Ed columns, I’m sure. Thoughtful, concise, well-researched, beautifully written. 

Instead I told you how well my lecture at the uni went, how bright the students are, how close a reading they’d given the work, and how much hope for the future I feel having met those young people. I tossed around a few ideas for papers I could write. Should write? (Only a few years ago you would have gently chided me: “those papers won’t write themselves, get on it!”)  I read to you  from one of our scrapbooks, describing the photos and the memories they hold for me, making sure I didn’t ask “Remember when we . . .? Remember when?”

Mum did all the Christmas baking this year; I had the last almond square for you - but even that didn’t pull you from the sleep you so obviously needed. (Confession: when I came home I had a cup of tea and ate the almond square.)  Holding the square in front of you, trying to tempt you awake with the scent of almonds, I talked about the marzipan figurines we saw in shop windows of patisseries in Europe. And that Easter is late this year, but Mum and Donna made the Simnel cakes in Deep River when we visited for Family Day weekend.

I still think of Family Day as a “new” holiday as it wasn’t invented when I was a child/ teenager living in Canada. But it was first celebrated in 2008, so it’s older than us, as a couple. Donna, Lorie & I spent the weekend with Mum & Tom in Deep River; snowshoeing, playing Scrabble & Scattegories, reading, baking, cooking, eating. Exactly the sort of weekend you’d love. I thought of you - and how you’d enjoy the moment we were in - many, many times.

We’ve never walked through an almond tree grove together and smelled almond blossoms, or picked nuts from the tree. We’ve stood over a pot of hot water though, to blanch almonds and squirt them from their skins. We’ve deep fried elderberry blossoms and we’ve made elderberry jam, and we’ve picked blackberries and blueberries and forged for mushrooms and wild garlic. 

You don’t need to open your eyes, Doug. I can use my words to describe the things we’ve seen, and smelled, and tasted. And the cuckoos we listened for in the English springtime, and the sting of nettles we picked for soup. My voice may be a little muffled by the mask, but this is me speaking. My skin is winter-dry, but this is my hand holding yours. Right now, this is everything. And more than enough. 

Six Years Ago

Doug has always been a cat person; he re-homed his cat, Milo, when he moved to the UK with me. At the time I had no idea how great a sacrifice that was. I’d grown up with both cats and dogs, but always thought of myself as a dog person. (Wrong! Apparently I’m an animal person.) I have made a lot of poor decisions in my life, and regret things both done and undone. But wen we moved back to Canada, I suggested to Doug that we adopt a cat. Such a good decision!

Piper's first day in her new home

We went to our local humane society, where there were six super cute, energetic kittens, and a significantly older cat. I expected Doug to choose a kitten but he immediately pointed to the bigger, older cat. ‘Middle aged women need to be loved too,’ he said. In that moment I fell in love with him all over again. Later he admitted that he was worried Piper would be euthanised if she wasn’t adopted. When we signed the papers, one of the workers gave another a thumbs up and told us, ‘She’ll do so much better by herself.’ (True. She doesn’t not get along well with other cats, dogs, or spiders.)

We didn’t own a car, so brought her back in a taxi. After a half hour exploration of her new home, she nodded her head as if in approval, and curled up for a nap on our bed.

Doug's last night at home - Piper didn't leave his side

She kept us awake for most of that first night while she discovered places to play hide and seek (inside the box spring! behind a row of books on the top shelf!), and took great care to remind us that cats are crepuscular animals - waiting until we’d finally fallen asleep before waking us up by licking our faces and asking for breakfast.

It's not really a challenge to do a jigsaw unless you have a cat . . . 

She was absolutely Doug’s cat for the rest of his time at home. She followed him around like a puppy dog, and waited by the door for his return when he was out. I hope they kept each other company when I was at work; I know she still misses him.

She wakes me at dawn most mornings. I continue to buy her toys - even though boxes, paper bags, and hair elastics remain her firm favourites. She takes up an incredible amount of space in the bed, and often feels the need to sleep on top of me. 

And I wouldn’t change a thing. She knows when I’m sad and in need of comfort; she licks away my tears when I cry; she holds her paw in my hand. She grooms me daily.

We had hoped for children, biological or adopted, but the universe had other plans. I suspect, truly, Piper chose us and let us pretend we were choosing her. I am not for a second suggesting that a cat replaces a child, but she came into our lives when we most needed her, and we have loved her ever since. 

So much change in those six years, but through it all this unconditional love. 

#love for the win!