Forever — is composed of nows —

For my husband to give me a meaningful card for our anniversary was present enough. But coupled with heart-shaped earrings in a beautiful little box, WOW!  With Leslie’s help — she offered him three choices — he picked the earrings and the handcrafted box to put them in. He doesn’t remember our Boxing Day anniversary, nor how many years we’ve been married, but some glimmer helped him choose perfectly.

When I opened the Leslie-wrapped present, he hung over my shoulder to see what he’d given me and why. “Our anniversary? Did I forget?” I said he hadn’t, and that the box and earrings were what he’d given me.

“I did a good job, didn’t I?” he said. “Did you give me something?”

“I did. That card on the mantle…and shoes.”

“Shoes? You gave me shoes?”

I laughed. “Two pair yesterday,” I said.

“Why?”

“Why did I give you shoes, or why did I give you two pair?

“Yes.”

“”Well, shoes because you’ve been complaining you don’t have any, and one pair because it was Christmas and the other pair as an early anniversary present…”

“Anniversary? Did I miss it?”

“No, it’s today, it’s ‘now,'” I said. I held the box up to show him Emily Dickinson’s line.

He shook his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

Hm, Dickinson is sometimes hard to explain. “It means ‘now’ should be treasured and celebrated, our anniversary, for instance. ‘Now’ means the present…right now…’forever’ is made of all our ‘nows.'”

I don’t think my stumbling explanation made sense to him, but he was pleased that I was pleased with “the present” he chose.

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Birdseye maple box, Mike Mikutowski Wood-working. Lapis lazuli earrings header above, Cathy Guss

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

Be gentle with yourself, you’re doing the best you can.

Notices for books by, for and about caregivers show up in my email every day. I follow blogs by women  who are caregivers, and by experts who advise them…advise us. The common thread is, be kind to yourself and remember, you’re doing the best you can at a very hard job.

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Monday, Leslie collected Peter at ten for Christmas shopping and lunch. She volunteered for the job. She, and Carolynn too, always lift his spirits and make him laugh with their teasing. I’m sure he enjoyed the day, even though he didn’t remember where they’d been.

After they’d gone, I spent a long hour on the phone straightening out a niggling problem, the sort of thing I despise doing. After that, I thought, I should go to the grocery. But, no, dammit, I would get coffee at Our Daily Bread, a favorite haunt. I’m so glad I did. While I dawdled over coffee and cranberry/orange scone, I read two excellent story drafts by writer friends. Un-in-ter-rupt-ed. I felt a bit guilty that I enjoyed being there without Peter, but I confess, I savored it.

As I was about to leave, a young woman waved from across the room. Stephanie, a gardener friend, worked her way to my table and gave me a hug. “So nice to see you out like this,” she said. “I know how hard things must be, but obviously, you have ‘time off’ today.” She’d just been to Florida visiting her father who has Alzheimer’s too. “I understand what you’re going through,” she added.

Stephanie, with her million-dollar smile and twinkling eyes, helped make my day.

After that, I did get a few things at Kroger’s. While in the card aisle, looking for an anniversary card for my husband, a wheelchair-bound, sweet elderly lady asked me to help her find a Christmas card for a dear friend. I picked out several, but cost was an issue. She really liked an eight dollar one, but wanted something in the five dollar range. I found one with a message she loved. She thanked me over and over.

I hope I helped make her day.

Leslie stayed for a cup of tea after she brought Peter home even though I knew she had lots to do at her house.

She made my day all over again.

This morning, both daughters texted, Today is the shortest day of the year. Won’t be long until time to cut the grass, as my dad always said on the Winter Solstice.

Their reminders made me chuckle and made this day.

 

Header photo: Christmas cookie selection at Our Daily Bread.

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A down day turned up.

Early morning and already there were signs that it was going to be a down day. The salt and pepper shakers were in the butter compartment of the fridge, mustard, in the silverware drawer, and we were nearly out of bread. Nothing gets my day off to a worse start than having to do without toast. Lately, Peter has been eating almost a loaf a day — two pieces of toast, three sandwiches for lunch, and at least three slices with jam at various times during the evening.

Down.

But I eked out two slices from the end of the loaf.

Up.

When Peter came downstairs, he turned the television on first thing, as usual, but the growling that followed was not on “Today.” I ignored him for a few minutes hoping he’d figure out that if he stopped pushing all the buttons the remote would “catch up” to his impatient demands.

Down.

But I gave in. He looked up with a silly smile and continued jabbing buttons. “Um, were you actually going to call somebody? That’s the phone!”

He shook his head and laughed and so did I. Might as well.

Up.

Later I asked if he wanted to go shopping. He was waiting by the door before I changed into my best jeans. My husband is always ready to “go to the shops.” No sooner did I back out the drive than he started asking, “Any news from upstate?” Even though I’d said no, he continued, “Do they have snow?” The same questions six times in seven  miles. I counted.

Down.

I parked midway between TJMaxx and Barnes & Noble. A way to get in my morning walk and finish Christmas shopping in one. I found what I wanted quickly and checked out. We headed in the general direction of the car to stow my purchases. Ah, but where had I parked? Peter really enjoyed that laugh — up — as we sloshed and searched — down.

Version 2At the bookstore, I found what I wanted so fast that Peter was disappointed. He loves to wander at Barnes & Noble. “How about a coffee?” I asked to make up for my quick trip. I ordered a java chip frappacino — up — and asked if he wanted his usual cappuccino? “Yes, whatever that is,” he said. For the twenty minutes we sat over coffee he asked, four more times, “Any news from upstate?”

Down.

When we got home, Peter looked at the clock and yelped, “It’s gone one! Have I had lunch?”

Down.

“No, just coffee, nothing to eat. Make a sandwich.” He liked that idea. I went to the basement to wrap Christmas presents. When I came up, he had his Santa hat on and was working on a 500-piece puzzle. He’d marked out its one-by-three foot dimensions carefully, correctly.

Up.

img_4517Header: Peter puzzles.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Puzzling.

A lot of puzzling memory and behavior problems cluster under the dementia umbrella. So far, science knows too little about most of the variations and nothing that can cure any of them.

img_4436On a day-to-day living-with-it level, my husband’s memory issues are baffling to both of us. He’s always liked to do crosswords, and still brags about the time 50 years ago when he won the London Times Sunday crossword challenge. He does the daily crosswords still, but I’m not sure how well. He enjoys jigsaws too, and recently resurrected a 3D castle puzzle.

So I got out several Christmas puzzles we’ve worked many times over the years. Among them, a tiny one depicting a mouse dressed as Santa. I sorted the edge pieces from the rest. and laid out the one small section that was still stuck together. The whole thing is quite small. He got into it quickly. Ten minutes later I went back to see how he was doing. There were a lot more white background pieces than before.

img_4440“Where did these come from?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders and muttered something about “needing more.” I picked up a piece that had green pine needles as part of the design. “Oh, these don’t go with this puzzle,” I said, “they go with this one.” I showed him the larger puzzle I’d set aside. It pictures wild birds on a feeder that hangs from a pine bough. It was partially put together in the box.

img_4437Peter doubled over laughing at himself. “Well, when I couldn’t find the pieces I needed, I thought they might be in that box,” he explained. He realized how silly that sounded.

“We’ll do that one separately,” I said. “Finish this little one first.”

“There aren’t enough pieces,” he said, grabbing for the bigger box again. He’d instantly forgotten we’d had that conversation, that he’d laughed at himself.

As often happens, I tried to make sense of how he can work on an intricate 3-D 620-piece jigsaw one minute and the next try to fit a 500-piece 12″ x 36″ puzzle into a 100-piece 7.5″ square frame.

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Header: Tiny puzzle puzzles.

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Nobby did it.

Finding everyday things in strange places has become a daily occurrence at our house. I’ve found a milk carton in the bread drawer, Peter’s green coffee mug in the fridge’s butter keeper. Salt and pepper shakers and Coleman’s mustard are often in there too — that little compartment can hold a lot. One morning there was a plastic baggie filled with potatoes beside his chair in the family room, and the electric kettle was sitting next to the burner of our gas stove. The latter, a disaster waiting to happen.

Lately Peter insists it’s my fault that he’s never known he should put liquid soap into the sink to wash things that don’t go in the dishwasher. Likewise, it’s my fault I never told him where to put the teaspoons after I finally found all of them wrapped neatly inside a place mat. And after I’d searched all over the kitchen for the box of tea I knew I’d bought a few days before, Peter was as surprised as I was when he pulled the box out of the little table beside his chair.

“Ah ha!” I said.

“How did this get in here?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes and raised my left eyebrow, but I was smiling. “Nobby did it,” I said.

This morning around 11:30, I reminded Peter he still hadn’t taken the dog for his early walk. “I know, we’re going now,” he said. He fumbled with Nobby’s harness — he can hardly manage it anymore, but gets angry if I try to help — and started out the door wearing only a light sweater over his shirt.

“You’ll need your jacket and a hat,” I said

“But it looks like summer outside,” he said. “Looks like the sun is going to come up.”

“Peter, it’s nearly noon, the leaves are all gone, and it’s gray and cloudy and cold.”

“Oh-h, well…yes-s…,” he said as he went to get his jacket.

I sat down to write this post. Minutes later, my husband, zipped into his jacket, came up behind me. He held the dog’s leash and collar in his hand, but Nobby wasn’t attached. “Do you think Nobby wants to go for a walk? Is it too cold for him?”

“No, he’s got his fur coat on,” I said. “Go, go.” 

“OK, we’ll  back soon,” he said.

“Thanks for the warning,” I said, using one of his well-worn sayings. He laughed.

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Header photo: Peter asks Nobby if he did it.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

Remember? November.

Lately, my husband’s downhill run has gotten steeper, faster. When we used to bicycle together, we both preferred climbing hills to zooming down them. The  inherent thrill of a downhill scared both of us. That’s still true, though neither of us bikes anymore, and we don’t really talk about his descent. I can’t imagine how difficult it is for him although he still uses his “braking” mechanism: corny jokes and silly laughs.

We eked out a chuckle the other day. The doorbell rang. As usual Peter wouldn’t answer it though he made sure I’d heard it. A young man stood on the step holding a gorgeous bouquet. A bright beautiful cheery surprise after a trying few weeks.

img_4348Peter was working on the daily sudoku. I walked in holding the flowers. When he looked up his eyes popped, his mouth fell open, and the ruddy color drained from his cheeks. He glanced quickly at the date at the top of the newspaper page. “November,” he said. “That’s not you…is it?”

“Not me what? My birthday? No.”

“Are they for me?”

“No-o,” I laughed, “for me, from Carolynn and Robin. November is ‘Caregivers’ Month,'” I said. He didn’t question that. He doesn’t recognize that I’m his caregiver, and insists he doesn’t need one.

I put the flowers on the kitchen table. At dinner that evening he studied them. “Have those been there all along? You know, for months and months?”

“No, they came this morning.”

“Did I know that.”

I nodded.

Minutes later he asked again, then again, and again.

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Header photo: Colorful November.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Another good thing.

Periodically, over several years writing this blog, I’ve posted about the occasional “good things” that are a part of our dementia journey, my husband’s and mine. Another became apparent two days ago.

In addition to being totally flattened by the outcome of the presidential election, I was steamrolled by an intestinal bug. As we sat at the dinner table Friday evening, Peter started making silly faces at me. Apparently I was lost, thinking dark thoughts while waiting for him to finish his pork barbecue and cole slaw. It hadn’t taken me long to eat half a baked potato.

When he finally got my attention he asked, “What’s wrong?”

I’m sure I sighed. “Just thinking about the election,” I said.

He nodded. “What will happen?” he asked.

“I dunno’.” Another sigh.

“Do you think he’ll win?”‘

screen-shot-2016-11-13-at-1-21-34-pmWhat? Wait! Really? Admittedly, my English husband never got his U.S. citizenship, has never voted here, but didn’t he understand the election was over?  He did not. All my ranting and carrying on in recent months, the enormous photo of the president-elect on the front page Wednesday morning, the endless news reports I’d watched, us watching Secretary Clinton’s concession speech together, none of that had soaked in?

But see, that’s a good thing. He doesn’t remember while I wish I couldn’t.

Header photo: Post election sun still shines.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Apples and pears…stairs.

Peter looked at the lunch I was fixing for myself, my usual apple, chunk of Cheddar cheese, glass of milk. “Where did you get the apple?” he asked.

I pointed to the old wooden bowl that has always occupied our kitchen, that is always filled with fruit, and the occasional veg.

“Oh, I didn’t know that was there.” He picked out a piece of fruit, came back to the sink and turned on the water.

“That’s a pear,” I said as he washed it off.

Instantly, he collapsed laughing, his face as red as the apple’s cheeks, eyes twinkling. He hugged me. “I know it’s a pear, silly. I’m not that far gone.” I laughed with him and savored the hug.

That far gone, no, but he is more and more confused by the day, less and less able to find words or remember the simplest things. Still, I was grateful for the moment, the laugh, and the hug!

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Fruit with acorn squash.

Header photo: What a pair, pear.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Trouble with a capital T rhymes with me!

My friend Bette made it a point to tell me she’d seen Peter at the grocery store recently. She figured I must be in the store somewhere, although she didn’t see me. Bette introduced herself to him because she knew he wouldn’t remember her name. His response was quick and so typical of him. “Don’t tell ‘anyone’ I’m here. I’ll be in trouble.”

Anyone meant me, of course.

She didn’t remember what day it was, but I figured it was probably the Tuesday he snuck out without telling me he was leaving, nor where he was going. When I realized he wasn’t here and that he had probably been gone well over an hour, I went looking. By the time I got home, he was back. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, greeting me at the door as if he’d been out looking for me.

“You didn’t tell you were going out,” I said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I didn’t know where I was going,” he said. “I just went for a walk.”

“Where?”

DSC01592He shook his head. “Can’t remember.…that was a long time ago.” He uses the “long time ago” line a lot in attempt to joke his way out of Trouble. His only Trouble would’ve been if he had gotten lost for real!

That evening I found a Hershey bar wrapper and deduced that he’d gone to Kroger’s.

Several days later someone else told me she’d seen Peter at Kroger’s and he seemed confused. She saw him leave and decided to call me — it was that same Tuesday. I didn’t see her voice mail until after he’d “found himself,” but it is comforting to know we have friends to help me keep track.

Screen Shot 2016-06-15 at 11.56.06 AMI am researching personal tracking devices. There are several types on the market, but he wouldn’t use any of them willingly, and I know he would find ways to “lose” them. He’s crafty that way.  I wish someone would come up with a microchip like veterinarians implant in dogs. The idea would make Peter laugh…I think that will be my little secret.

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Breadcrumbs?

Header photo: The road not taken.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

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Play the cards you’re dealt.

My husband has taken to putting decks of cards in order, by suit, probably related to his need to control anything he can, however unimportant the activity seems to me. This latest obsession was especially noticeable when we visited Carolynn and Bill for a week.

Carolynn and I had put two decks of cards, a pad and pencil on the picnic table under a tree before lunch. The two of us were ready for an afternoon of canasta, part of our ritual weeklong championship.

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After we ate, Peter picked the cards up and began to lay them out, face up. He shook his head and frowned. “How do you know which deck to use?” he asked.

“We use both decks.”

“But they’re alike.”

“Doesn’t matter. Canasta is played with two decks, plus the four jokers.”

He continued sorting. When he finished, he knocked each deck sharply against the table and slid them neatly into their boxes. Even though Carolynn and I shuffled them over and over, the first hand we played after he’d organized them wasn’t well mixed. After she won that game too, we gave the cards back to Peter to organize all over again. He was happy.

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The joke is on me because later, when I Googled “organizing cards,” thinking I might learn another tidbit about dementia, I discovered instead that people around the world engage in contests to determine who can organize cards the fastest.  A young Canadian man set a record set a few years ago when he sorted a pack of cards in 00:22.60. There were no jokers in his deck though.

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Photos: Safari wallpaper

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.