Three years ago I published my first post, “We’ve arrived, and to prove it we’re here,” on my new blog, “Wherever you go, there you are.” A year later, August 6, 2014, I published my first post for this, my second blog.
I often think about how the subject matter of this blog has affected what I intended to write about in “Wherever you go, there you are.” As my husband’s dementia has worsened, traveling anywhere, even to the mall, can be a problem. His wardrobe needs to be replenished but he won’t go willingly to look for new shirts,pants, or shoes. If I try to buy things and take them to him, he won’t wear them. He didn’t even like the socks I bought.
I knew our last big trip in 2011 was our final trip — Peter got lost, at night, at Bryce Canyon, Utah. He wanted to hear a talk in the main lodge, within sight of our room. It was daylight when he left, and would be daylight when he returned. He went by himself.
Dusk fell. He wasn’t back. I raced to the main lodge, panicked because I’d let him, urged him, to go alone.
When I got to the desk, terrified and gasping, I could hardly speak. The staff jumped to action. Grounds crew sped out in golf carts, while I stayed behind and paced. It wasn’t long before the desk clerk beckoned. Peter had called! My husband, who never uses a phone, had the presence of mind to go into a dorm, knock on someone’s door and ask to use their phone.
“Stay right there, we’re coming,” I said. I hopped in with a groundskeeper and we rocketed through the dark.
Peter was inside a lighted entryway. He grabbed me and apologized over and over for getting lost. He was shaking. He’d never go off on his own again, he promised. “But it was my fault,” I said. “I should’ve gone with you.”
Neither of us slept well thinking what could have happened. I knew that trip was our last. No way could I cope with the escalating need to keep closer tabs on Peter, and keep track of travel details too. When we got home I tucked our luggage away and made a photo book of our travels to remind us where we’d been.
Now, the smallest outing is an event. We don’t go far, but we have mini-adventures. “Others deal with far worse,” my mother would’ve said, and I know it’s true. Besides, in the end, there’s no place like home.
Header: Queen’s Garden, Bryce Canyon, Utah (2011)
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
I think you might have kept this story from me…
Nope, I told you.