The three-week Tour de France raced to its thrilling conclusion Sunday in Paris. Over the years Peter and I have watched the always-exciting Tours, but this year’s race took the prize for nail-biting sprint finishes, new records set, dramatic crashes, more torturous mountain climbs, and global warming induced weather extremes. All good television as they say, but nothing more so than watching my cycle loving husband watch his sport.
I arrived at his door just before NBCSports began their coverage of the final ride into Paris. I’d dug out Peter’s faded yellow cycling cap, battered and worn though it is, and draped several of his medals around his neck. (Most of them were his badminton medals, but it’s the thot wot counts as his ol’ granny would’ve said.)
In his day, Peter biked a thousand or more miles per year evenings and weekends. He entered local races occasionally and always won his age category. Together we biked with tour groups and occasionally he deigned to ride with me while I “watched the grass grow,” his words for my speed.
Sunday he kept his eyes glued to the TV screen for the whole of the 108.4 km (67.3 mi) ride. Janey, one of the nurses, even brought his lunch in so he wouldn’t miss anything.
Better than any yellow jersey, any trophy, any medal was that Peter was the most present and the most content he’s been, in my presence at least, since before the pandemic. It was a far cry from the torturous months I’d just struggled through advocating for him. Sunday was a podium-worthy day. I smiled all the way home.
Header: Peter holds the trophy he won in the Tour du Utica (NY) in 1989—first place in the over-fifty category.
The stuff of my imaginings was the reunion and happy hug with Peter after the long, Covid-induced isolation more than three months ago. Less than five minutes after this picture was snapped, the glow was quashed.
I’d visited him isolated behind a large plexiglass shield a week or so earlier and I’d noticed then that he was wearing Crocs, no socks and his ankles looked swollen. His feet didn’t hurt, he said, but then he never has complained.
Carolynn, here the week of our reunion, was thrilled that she could visit her Poppy with me that day. She’s a registered nurse and I’d told her I wanted her look at his feet. We both gasped when I pulled his pant legs up. “This is bad, Mom.” There were oozing sores, one of them the size of a quarter, scattered across his badly swollen lower legs. The skin was red, scaly. Plus-4 pitting and weeping edema, which I’d never heard of, is what she observed. This hadn’t happened overnight. Obviously Peter wasn’t being assessed or treated and we wanted to know why not.
“He should be wearing compression stockings for the swelling, he should have an ultrasound to rule out heart issues, at the very least he should be on Lasix to reduce swelling, his meds need to be checked, and besides that,” she huffed, “his room is filthy!” She was in full charge nurse mode. I asked her take the lead when we talked to the duty nurse. I softened my daughter’s remarks a bit, adding that I knew Peter was responsible for some of the mess and clutter in his room but still, he was the resident in care and the “care” seemed to be missing.
Thus began what turned into more than three months of working through a scrim of excuses and blame. True, everyone, staff and residents alike, had been affected by Covid, but it was apparent that nursing basics had not been followed.
Dementia took Peter’s voice. I found mine.
Even though I detest confrontation, I went on the attack. My mantra became, my husband is not getting the care that more than 7500 dollars per month should ensure.
I contacted friends who had dealt with a loved one’s dementia-related issues and got their advice. The most pertinent—speak up.
I made phone calls and when that didn’t get the results I’d hoped for, I wrote to those who were in position to make changes.
I asked that compression stockings be ordered and when that wasn’t done, thanks to various lame excuses, I bought poor substitutes at CVS. Soon, the preferred brand were ordered.
I was told, incorrectly, that if I wanted my husband to see a cardiologist, I had to make the appointment. I got the required referral.
When I questioned some of his meds, particularly those to calm his combativeness, I complained about the zombie affect they caused. I suggested my time-tested calming techniques: a cup of tea and his tv tuned to sports.
There were other issues, but these were most significant and are being dealt with with varying degrees of efficiency.
Roadblocks and excuses every step of the way.
When I was told Covid has changed everything, I agreed. I complimented the good job the staff had done to keep residents safe during the long ordeal. I was sympathetic to their long work hours, short staff and uncertainties both at work and in their personal lives. When I heard, I’m not paid enough to do this, or We don’t have enough staff, I agreed. Easy for me to say, Hire more people, pay them more, offer incentives.
Peter’s legs are somewhat better, though still swollen. The most worrisome ulcer is healing slowly. He’s finally able to smile and joke a bit. That tells me he really did feel poorly, but couldn’t express himself. Who knows how long the condition had festered before my daughter and I let staff know that we knew something was grievously wrong?
I wish I could write a happy ending to this post, but in reality dementia is inherently unpredictable. And I wish I could say that there have been no further issues for me to deal with, but that isn’t the case. Frustrating senseless problems continue. They seem endemic.
The laughs that have helped us traverse this long path have been scarce these recent months. I cling to the tiniest chuckles: Peter was coming along the corridor one day when I walked in. He clutched at his trousers in a telltale way, so I headed him to the bathroom. “I don’t need to go in there,” he growled and pulled two small cans of Coke out of his pockets. I shook my head and laughed. He gave me a knowing look. “Gotcha!,” his smile seemed to say.
Header photo: Clematis hugs our lamp post. The plant symbolizes mental beauty and ingenuity. It climbs trellises and walls, sometimes in incomprehensible ways. Peter has attempted to climb walls too, and just two days ago I caught him stacking chairs in the gazebo! A means of escape? I wouldn’t put it past him.
Writing in the time of Covid has been tough. My mind is as scattered as the wintery mix that bounced on my windowsill all day. It has been so long since I posted here that I struggled to remember how to sign on!
The past several weeks were fraught. Calls from the facility where Peter lives rattled me. He’s become disruptive, combative, with staff and residents alike. This is not the man I married 39 years ago. No, this is a man who has lost his links to the outside world as have so many others imprisoned by both the Covid pandemic and the effects of dementia.
Prior to the March shutdown, Peter’s companion Mark took him for outings several times a week. I visited at least four afternoons. We’d play dominoes, watch sports on t.v. or walk outside. Sometimes we’d go for a drive or an easy hike and we celebrated holidays and birthdays with Leslie and Martin. Not so this year.
Is it any wonder Peter has not been the eccentric funnyman he was when he was admitted more than two years ago? He’s fed up with being locked in. Bored. All along I’ve told him about the pandemic and tried to explain why he’s even more confined than previously. He doesn’t remember what I’ve said. Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Remembering.
I had to laugh when I learned my husband had sneaked into a resident’s room and tried to put her clothes on. I laughed when I heard that he removed the laces from his shoes and tied them around his ankles for some reason. Not so funny is that he’d taken he laces out of other residents’ shoes. And not funny at all are other offenses that are totally out of character for my toe-the-line, proper English husband.
Combativeness is also unlike him. I’ve read that some dementia patients possess shocking physical strength. Peter is one of them. As a result he’s been prescribed a medication to calm him. It makes him so dopey—stoned, my daughters say—that he can barely talk. I realize his behavior could harm someone, but I wrote a letter to suggest alternative ways to redirect him. A cup of tea, favorite jazz on his “radio,” English football on his t.v.
Now it could be that during these nearly ten months since March that Peter has moved further along the dementia continuum, or it could be that the long isolation has had the debilitating effect that so many elderly residents suffer.
At last though, vaccinations for nursing home residents will begin soon in our area. With that, face-to-face visits might be permitted before too much longer. Maybe the “old” Peter will materialize, at least for a while, and we’ll be able to share genuine laughs once more.
Header photo: During a recent FaceTime chat, Peter wore a hat that he probably “borrowed” from someone’s closet.
The word “caregiver” in the tagline above bothers me because it really isn’t accurate any more. But the title, Dementia isn’t funny, still works because dementia isn’t funny. Not in the least.
The thing is, I’m no longer my husband’s caregiver per se. For the past 18 months, since he moved to a memory facility, there’ve been are nurses and aides, companions and activities personnel doing what I did at home for years. A care giver I’m not, but I do still care.
I’m no longer in charge of trying to get him to take his meds or take a shower, to change his socks, or brush his teeth. No longer do I drag him to get his hair cut, his beard trimmed, no more do I do his laundry. Still, when I visit I often try to get him to put his clothes away properly rather than stuffed in his shoes or under his pillow. To convince him to change into a clean shirt is almost impossible. He’ll answer “Yes, dear” and continue to ignore me as he always has. I always laugh because I never could change his ingrained stubbornness and I certainly can’t now! On the other hand, the things he likes to do, sweeping for instance, he’ll do willingly, thoroughly. He leaves no leaves unswept, no blade of newly mowed grass on the pavement.
One afternoon we were sitting in the gazebo when, out of the blue, Peter said it needed a coat of paint. I agreed—that gazebo is very shabby looking. I suggested a blue ceiling, a tradition in the South said to scare “haints” away and possibly even mosquitos and wasps too. I decided to find out if painting was even possible. And it is!
The following Sunday we looked at color chips at Lowe’s and picked some blues— Playful Pool and Vintage Aqua were nice. Later I found the color at left on-line: Benjamin Moore’s Ohio Haint Blue. I favor that because, well, I grew up in Ohio. Both sets of grandparents had blue porch ceilings and none of them had ever been further south than Columbus.
The gazebo hasn’t been painted yet, but I’m confident it will be. In fact, I have it on good authority that the ceilings of the porches will also be painted “haint” blue. I’m lobbying to have the garden benches painted a matching color, and maybe find floral chair cushions shades of blue for the porch furniture.
Meanwhile, I haven’t thought of a new word to replace “caregiver” in the tagline. Peter would probably suggest “the wife”:The wife, Judith Clarke, looks for laughs every day. He’d laugh himself silly at his joke, knowing I would not!
Haint (haunt) ain’t in my dictionary, but hain’t is. The latter, a contraction of ain’t and have not.
Header photo: Peter loves to sweep the porch near his room. Soon there will be a haint blue ceiling above his head.
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
A neighbor drove by while I was walking the dog one morning. She stopped to say she missed seeing Peter out with Nobby. “I do too,” I said, “thanks.”
“How is he doing?”
“Better than most,” I told her. “We’re ‘lucky.'”
“Tell him Ron and I said ‘hello.'”
Another morning walk and another neighbor, Ann, stopped at the curb. “I’ve wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your blog,” she said. “I help someone who has Alzheimer’s. It’s tough all ’round…” she waved goodbye, then called out, “by the way, love your dog.”
Monday an email reminded me, as if I could forget, that my blog would be featured July 17—today— on the AlzAuthors’ website. Anyone who writes, who longs to be published, who doesn’t care if she ever earns a cent will understand what an absolute thrill this is.
Published!
When I took Nobby out yesterday I was still doing my happy dance from the previous day’s news. Yet another neighbor came along and, when Nobby bounced over for a cuddle, she remarked that her golden doodle was as happy as mine.
To be published on a national site and, more importantly, to be able to share, more broadly, our experiences, Peter’s and mine, well, it’s intoxicating! “Happy” doesn’t begin to describe my joy.
Header photo: Delicate old-fashioned hollyhock disappeared from my garden years ago. I spotted it recently, tucked among the branches of the Nashiki willow, in a different spot entirely, but still as pretty.
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
Thunder woke me this morning. A grim start to an anniversary, although this isn’t an anniversary to celebrate, no. A year ago today I had Peter admitted to memory care. Although he hasn’t been able to remember the day, the month or the year for a long time, I think, if he could remember April 18, 2018 and if he could express himself, he would say it was the worst day of his life.
I do remember and I shudder, but I don’t dwell there. That’s both good and bad, I suppose.
I’m glad to say that Peter is doing well, better than most, I think. The problems he had those final months at home—falling, getting lost, increasing confusion, hallucinations, anger— are gone. But cured? Of course not. Living apart from the heightened tension and stress at home as I tried to cope with our situation helped both of us enormously.
Settled in now, the staff and residents love him and his silly pranks and goofiness. At last week’s Prom Peter was, as he always has been, the life of the party. He thanks me and hugs me the way he used to do every time I visit.
My husband’s single-minded determination to problem-solve and his innate sense of humor have carried him through these very rough twelve months. It’s as if he grits his teeth mentally and reckons with how his life is now. He rarely asks when he can go home, but when he does I redirect as best I can, then watch as he turns inside himself, furrows his brow and deals with the knowledge. After a couple minutes he shakes his head, smiles sadly, and says, “Oh well.” And that’s it. He’s dealt with it.
Peter thrives in care as much as anyone who has a dementia can thrive. Perhaps he thrives too much! His entire adult life he weighed 145 pounds. He loved to boast he could still wear clothes he had when he was twenty. He’s now a fraction under 150 and he’s popped the buttons on his trousers and shirts! My formerly skinny husband has love handles!
Over the past year I’ve posted about the tough times, and there were lots, but if I were to count, I think there were more light-hearted posts than not. I want to believe that.
Neither of us would have gotten through the year so well without laughter. If laughs were available in a pill, they might be a cure for dementia.
[Elaine Eshbaugh, PhD, Associate Professor of Family Services & Gerontology at the University of Northern Iowa, writes a hugely helpful blog. Her April 15, 2019 post, “What I think caregivers… need to know…”, was exactly what I needed to read this week. Do follow her!]
Header photo: This dogwood lightened my mood as I walked Nobby this morning after the rain.
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
Sir John Suckling invented cribbage in early 1600s England. The game, still popular in pubs, is played with one deck of cards, a cribbage board and colored pegs with which to keep score.
Cribbage is somewhat complicated, but even more than the game itself, the odd terms and conventions confuse beginners. This isn’t surprising considering that the country of origin gives its villages such whimsical names as Pucklechurch, Nether Wallop and Great Snoring. Cribbage terms—his Nob, box, the crib, right Jack and Muggins—confuse as well. A Muggins, for example, is called when a player doesn’t calculate her score correctly— the difference in points is awarded to the opponent. Good thing for me we’ve never followed that rule.
Peter and I used to play a lot of cribbage. He teased relentlessly when I forgot whose turn it was to play after a “go” or whose turn to cut the cards or, for that matter, even to remember when to cut the cards. In my never ending attempt to keep him engaged now, I wondered if he would try to play again. He surprised me.
Without going further into the myriad details and quirks of the game—this isn’t meant to instruct after all—I’ll just say that Peter plays way better than I thought he would. He remembers to offer the dealer, me, a chance cut the deck and to cut for the “turn-up,” while I remember which direction to peg. He never remembers which color is his and often—on purpose I’m sure—moves my red peg ahead if he and his blue peg are behind.
At first he didn’t seem to remember that a hand with four ten-count cards, a five, and a five turned up was an “even ‘doz,” his words for 12 points. But when I used the phrase I saw the tiniest spark in his eyes that said, oh-h, yes…even ‘doz…
Mickey M kibitzes.
When I forget to add extra points for a hand that is all the same suit (four) or that also matches the turn up suit (five) Peter reminds me with a sly look. I never have been able to remember that when “his Nob” is turned up the dealer gets two points.
He’s remembered the custom to knock sharply on the table to signal either that he can’t play or doesn’t want to cut. Another niggly convention I seldom recall.
It has worked out that whenever we play one of us remembers what the other forgets. Peg two points for the pair we are!
One day I suggested we play Rummy for a change. Nearly every hand, Peter forgot he needed to lay down at least a run of three or three of a kind. It confuses him when I remind him that he can draw from the discard pile if he wants a certain card and is able to play it with something in his hand. I’d just discarded a queen when he asked, “Can I pick that Queen up?”
“Yes, but you have to play her with at least two other Queens, or the King and Jack of hearts.”
He studied his hand then, with a flourish, spread four Queens and three tens across the table. “OUT!” he said.
I sputtered. “You fooled me again, you cheeky bugger.”
He loves to make me laugh and I love that he still tries.
Peter giddy that he tricked me.
He knows what it takes to win after all.
Header: Peter and Nobby are featured on cards we use.
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
From 2009-2015 I worked at writing a novel. In that time I managed to complete drafts of sixteen chapters. Not many for six years, but the writing group I belonged to encouraged me.
Then I ran into a writer’s block.
I’d never written fiction and hadn’t a clue where I was going with the book I’d finally titled But Why? What I wrote during that time seemed more like journal entries, a diary maybe, that began when my protagonist, Isabelle, was nine. Though fiction, my book-to-be doesn’t read that way. No conflict, no tension, no real plot. Stymied, I quit and decided to try writing a blog, my first. “Wherever you go, there you are” attracted readers, plus a number of repostings on the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop site.
There was another block too, a big one. It lurked behind dementia’s sweeping skirts. During the years I’d tried to write about Isabelle’s innocence, I acknowledged what I’d known all along—my husband’s dementia diagnosis was actually Alzheimer’s disease (ALZ).
I began to stumble along a twisted path studded with potholes, hairpin curves and detours. Writing a novel, or writing anything at all, was no longer a priority. In fact nothing was prioritized except Peter. He was, and is, priority one. That previous sentence makes me sound as if I’m Clara Barton and Mother Theresa rolled into one. I am not. I’m short-tempered, frustrated, exhausted, confused, stressed, sad and angry a lot of the time, sometimes all at the same time.
What about an Alzheimer’s conflict in my novel-to-be? Why not?
When I accepted that Peter had ALZ, I felt as helpless as a leaf blowing helter-skelter in a storm. Writing and finding the right words is my therapy. Would another blog help? That thought morphed into this blog. The writing has helped me, and my words have helped others I’ve heard.
From the beginning of this long awful trip I read everything I could find on the types of dementia. Dementia isn’t a gentler type of Alzheimer’s. No, dementia is an umbrella word that covers several diseases, Alzheimer’s the most widely known of all of them. That’s noteworthy because ALZ, while not contagious, is an epidemic, the sixth leading killer in this country after heart disease, cancer, chronic lower respiratory disease, accidents and stroke. Of these, Alzheimer’s has no cure.
ALZ affects families in ways that other killer diseases do not. The loved one’s life is a chiaroscuro of lights and darks, sun and shadow, instant transformations from the former self to the self that is, in that moment. There are drugs that can help—namely Namenda and Aricept—and various prompts to make daily life more tolerable for patient and caregiver: increase exercise, do crosswords, eat right, get enough sleep but not too much, call-the-doctor-in-the-morning, eat-an-apple-a-day, cross your fingers.
What works best for us is laughter, always the best medicine. Admittedly, it is extremely difficult, if not downright impossible sometimes, to find a reason to laugh. Luckily for us, Peter’s sense of humor hasn’t deserted him…yet. When I visited one day I set out a 100-piece jigsaw. We fiddled with this piece and that in the mostly red, black and yellow puzzle. Peter chortled when, predictably, clumsy me knocked the sorted piles to the floor.
I still remember how wrenching it was to drop eleven-year-old Carolynn at her first sleep-away camp. And I still remember taking Leslie to college, moving her in, and then watching her walk away from me without looking back. Those days still grip my heart.
If you’ve experienced similar days, similar pain, I can tell you they were nothing, nothing, compared to the day you deliver your spouse to a memory care unit for what is supposed to be a month’s respite for both of you.
My husband’s long, long journey from “mild dementia” to “can’t rule out Alzheimer’s” to “probably Parkinson’s, too, with Lewy Body disease” has lasted 15 years. Fourteen-and-a-half of them relatively easy, I now realise. My panicked uncertainty during the time since February when he had a bad fall, followed by weeks of rapid decline have been exhausting, wearing, and sad for me and the rest of the family.
Not so for Peter! The one good thing about dementia — any of the dementias, I suspect – is that the afflicted doesn’t remember anything from one minute, one second, to the next.
After those bleak early February days, I decided to try respite care because I could not carry on without a break from the constant crises. No matter how many times I explained to Peter that he’d be in respite care for a few weeks — a therapeutic lie meaning “at least a month” — he never grasped it. I based my explanation on the number of times he’d fallen since February. He had no memory of that, even with photos as proof, nor of any of his recent falls. “I can’t lift you,” I said, “can’t take care of you when you’re like this.”
Leslie and I had already checked local respite care. The best choice was obvious. Even so, Peter and I coasted along for another few weeks or maybe a month. Push came to shove in April. Peter fell again while we walked Nobby one evening. I’d convinced him to hold my hand and use his cane with his other hand when, suddenly, he smashed face first onto the street. He didn’t have the strength to get himself up and I didn’t have the strength to lift him. I’d been so diligent about keeping my cell phone with me, but we’d just come home from a nice dinner out, and my phone was still in my purse…on the kitchen counter. Luckily, a young woman came by and helped lift him, then offered to get her car to take Peter home.
Not even seconds after it happened, nor at anytime since, did he remember falling. It was time.The hours, days, weeks, months whipped by so quickly since February while I struggled to keep things “normal.” Yet, the same period oozed too. Years could have passed while I was stuck in a molasses swamp.
I wouldn’t wish any of this on anyone.
The awful April day when Peter, Leslie and I met with the facilities’ director of nursing, the administrator and others is a blur. Though my husband didn’t understand what was going on, he did know he was the center of discussion and he hates that. He understood just enough to know he didn’t like what was happening. His Mt. Rushmore persona was apparent. I reached for his hand, but he pulled away angrily.
Between then and five days later when he was admitted, I prepared for his move as if I were taking him to college or to camp. I bought him new underwear, new socks, tubes of toothpaste, cheery yellow sheets, and bright blue towels. I packed favorite picture books about England, pictures to hang on the walls, photos to put in a drawer, his special tea and coffee mugs, jigsaw and crossword puzzles, pencils, pens and paper, Sudoko books. I washed and ironed his shirts and trousers and polished his shoes.
Leslie and Martin helped with the move-in. Stoney silence from Peter as Leslie and I gabbled and tried to lighten the mood. Martin took Peter to lunch while Leslie and I finished making the room as homey as possible. We added finishing touches the next day. Peter was almost jovial. He managed a few silly jokes and we breathed sighs of relief.
By the time all the paperwork was completed two more days had passed and the meter was running. A private room in the best facility around doesn’t come cheap. Thank goodness for long term care insurance. When I finally took my husband to be admitted, he was practically mellow. Whew.
Ah, but that was only day one. A Tuesday.
Header: Peter in the garden surrounding his new home-away-from-home. The fence, he has since explained with a twinkle in his eyes, is climbable!
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
Peter and I were getting ready for bed. “I’ve lost me wallet and me keys,” he said. He patted his pockets to confirm his fears.
Peter sleeps.
“You had them earlier,” I said. He loses them so often that I’m immune to his panics. “Let’s go to bed. They’ll show up in the morning.” Uncharacteristically, he gave up his search. He was as tired as I was, even thought he’d slept most of the four hour drive to Ohio.
We were there for grandson Miah’s graduation from Hocking College. The night before, eleven of us had celebrated with an excellent and jubilant dinner, followed by the ceremony Saturday morning. We ate lunch at place I’d frequented during my years at Ohio University, followed by a campus tour where I recognized only the oldest parts of campus and, later, pizza and a movie. Way more goings-on than Peter and I have in a week, much less a weekend.
Sunday morning, as we rushed to get ready to meet the family for breakfast, Peter patted his pockets again. “I’ve lost me wallet and me keys.”
“Coffee first, then we’ll look.” The strange locale, unfamiliar lodging, and hectic pace had muddled my already muddled husband even more.
At breakfast I mentioned the “losses” to Martin. He was positive Peter had them the previous evening.
“I’ll help you find them after we say goodbye to Miah,” he said. Suddenly, simultaneously, we said, ‘trackers.’ Didn’t you put one on Peter’s keychain?” Martin asked.
“Yes!”
“Do you remember the password?” Martin was doubtful.
“Ha! Yes.”
TrackR™
A TrackR™ is an inexpensive gadget I bought to supplement the very expensive GPS/watch, PAL, that Peter hates. PAL (protect and locate) helps me to find him if he decides to take another five-hour walk away from home or gets lost on a short walk. He refuses to wear it inside; so far though, he hasn’t taken it off outside. In fact, he shouldn’t be able to remove it at all. The locking mechanism — I have the “key” — is foolproof, supposedly. It is not, however, engineer proof. He canand doesremove it when he gets back from walking Nobby, but often “loses” it in the house. Hence, two 50-cent-sized TrackRs, one attached to his keys, one to Nobby’s collar.
So, there we were after breakfast, Martin holding my phone, already paired with the TrackR app, as we listened for the shrill beep.
“I hear it!” Martin said.
“I hear it!” Peter said.
“Hear it, Judy?” Martin asked.
“No-o.” (The one drawback to TrackR is, I cannot hear the beep, although I can locate it with my phone.)
“Bathroom,” Martin yelled. We crowded into the tiny space, laughing because there was nothing there except tub, toilet, two wet towels…and us.
“No, out by the sink,” Martin said. Nope.
“The bed.” Peter pulled the covers up and shook them. Nothing.
“The sound is right here,” Martin said, “so close. Where is the darned thing?”
“Wait, what’re we looking for?” Peter asked.
Martin and I were dumbfounded. “Your keys. Your wallet.”
“These?” he said, holding his keys up.
We howled.
“Where’s your wallet then?” Martin asked.
“Here,” Peter said. He pulled it out of his pocket. We’d never thought to check his pockets again because…well…because. When and where he found them we don’t know. We do know why he didn’t remember he’d “lost” them: he simply can’t remember anything.
It felt good to laugh uncontrollably after two-months with nothing to laugh at. Side-splitting hilarity was the perfect end to a fun-filled, celebratory weekend.
Header: Family and friends,Samantha, Kenna, Lucas, Leslie, Miah, Caitlyn, Martin, me, Peter, Mason, and Tim.
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
I arrived at his door just before NBCSports began their coverage of the final ride into Paris. I’d dug out Peter’s faded yellow cycling cap, battered and worn though it is, and draped several of his medals around his neck. (Most of them were his badminton medals, but it’s the thot wot counts as his ol’ granny would’ve said.)
