At the urging of my friend Kathie, I submitted three posts from this blog to the National Society of Newspaper Columnists Contest, Online Blog, Multimedia Under 100,000 Unique Visitors Category. Whoo, a categorical mouthful!
My happy dance shook the rafters. There might even be a hairline crack in the foundation. I so wanted to tell Peter about it, babble on and on the way I used to do when some small triumph came my way.
But I can’t, not anymore. I’ve told him about this blog, as well as my other one, “Wherever you go, there you are.” He isn’t the least bit curious. I’ve tried to encourage him to read some posts, but he simply will not. Maybe he cannot. I’m not at all sure he can read very well anymore. He can’t concentrate long enough to remember the plot, and he often asks me the meaning of words. Typical of Peter, he jokes about it, deliberately mispronouncing a word he doesn’t recognize.
There are days when I think he’d enjoy some of my shorter posts because the blog centers on him. He likes to know he’s noticed, a star in his own galaxy. Yet there are other days, too many lately, when knowing that I write about him would infuriate him. He’d retreat to what I’ve always called his “Mt. Rushmore mode.” Stoney. Silent.
So, except for an email in all caps to Carolynn, Leslie and a few others, I’ve been mum. Until now. Maybe I’ve earned bragging rights.
I wish I could share my excitement with my husband and that he could understand my thrill.
I with I had no reason to write this blog. Dementia really isn’t funny.