It was a date.

Posted on February 28, 2016 by judithclarkewrites under Chocolate, Favorites, Remember

“I know what the date it,” Peter said suddenly, “but I don’t know the day.” We were having coffee at our favorite bakery. We go there fairly often, but this was a special day.

“Mmm,” I said, “what is the date then?”

He nodded towards the large hanging blackboard that had specials listed. February 26, 2016 was written across the top. His birthday.

I laughed. “That’s why we’re here. It’s your birthday. And it’s Friday by the way.”

“My birthday? I didn’t know…”

“You didn’t know even when I said ‘Happy Birthday’ when you got up, nor from the message I put on your board…?”

“When was that?”

“First thing this morning,” I said.

“Oh, that was a long time ago.” Thirty seconds is a long time ago for him these days.

It turned out to be one of his best birthdays ever, I think. We went to see the newly released “Eddie the Eagle” followed by fish and chips at Red Robin. I figured the movie — about the young Englishman who decided to compete as a ski jumper in the 1988 Calgary Olympics — would be a sure bet. And it was. Most films with English overtones catch Peter’s fancy, and this one laugh-out-loud funny and punctuated with Olympian excitement and hope. We laughed at Eddy who had no fear, and groaned and yelped at his spectacular crashes. We trained and strained with him as he worked toward his goal. The movie was the perfect antidote for the week I’d had, and a perfect birthday treat for my husband.

Later, he pronounced his fish and chips “good as always.” We even shared Chocolate “Fruffles”™ to drench in fruit “ketchup” and whipped creme. What’s not to love?

“So you liked the movie, then?” I said. “Good, wasn’t it?”

“What movie?” he asked, then shook his head disgustedly. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t remember.” I gave him clues — “English…skiing…Olympics…Eagle” — but nothing sparked his memory.

He noticed his message board for the first time when we got home. Later, he jotted a note to me: THANK YOU.

Even if he couldn’t recall what he was thanking me for, that made my day.

Header photo: Chairs at our favorite bakery, Our Daily Bread.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

His sneezes, like his questions, are repetitive.

Posted on February 24, 2016 by judithclarkewrites under Caregiver, Dementia, Remember, Sickness & Health

Hiccups every few minutes for several days predict a bad head cold for my husband. Sure enough, a weekend of hiccups were followed on Monday by a cacophonous, multi-sneeze cold. I started force-feeding orange juice, more cups of tea than are usual for him, and a potion a friend recommended.

Every time I approached, spoon in hand, Peter said, “What’s that for?”

“Your cold,” I answered again and again.

“Do I have a cold?” he croaked between sneezes.

“Yes,” I said, over and over. “Mmm-m.”

Tuesday, when I asked if he felt well enough to go on the usual Nobby-the-therapy-dog visit to the adult day care facility, he asked if he’d been sick. Then he sneezed and sneezed and sneezed. I cancelled.

Same again this morning. A nursing home visit was scheduled for Nobby. “How do you feel?” I asked. Peter patted himself all over and said, as he always does, “I feel fine.” He sounded worse than Louis Armstrong on a good day. I cancelled the visit.

There are so many horrible diseases humans contend with, but often it’s the common cold that makes us the grumpiest. Dementia is a bit like Kleenex – it wipes away the last sniffle, the dripping nose, the streaming eyes. The cold is still contagious, but dementia in all its guises, is not — and that’s a good thing.

My husband isn’t grumpy when he has a cold, he’s sneezy. But when I catch his colds, lookout, I’m grumpy.

Sneezy and Grumpy sketches: “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” ©Walt Disney Studios, 1937

Header photo: A sneeze magnified.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Aside

What can I do?

My brain had short circuited. I clutched my head and tried to figure out which problem to tackle next. Just then, Peter peeked around the door. “Can I do anything to help?” he asked.

My pitiful smile didn’t reach my eyes. “Could you give me some peace of mind?” I asked. “That would help.”

He chuckled. “You want a piece of my mind?” he said.

The tears that had threatened dried up. Just that brief exchange lightened my mood.

Photos: Sailing to Alaska (2006)

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Aside

Well, well, well.

“Hello,” I said to my husband when I came in the door.
“Hole in the ground,” he replied.
“What?” He often responds with something he thinks is funny.
“I thought you said, ‘Well.’”
“No, I said, ‘Hello.’”
“Oh well.” He grinned.
I laughed, but maybe you had to be there.

Peter explained this hole in the ground—the Grand Canyon—to a visitor who thought he was a guide who knew what he was talking about! (2011)

Header photo: At Yellowstone National Park.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

‘Consider yourself reminded.’

Posted on February 14, 2016 by judithclarkewrites under Chocolate, Holidays

He stood at the kitchen table and puzzled over the red envelope I’d tucked inside the morning paper. “Is it my birthday?” he asked as he opened the card. It showed two goldfish smiling at each other from their side-by-side bowls. When he jumps into her bowl they live happily ever after, presumably.

Right month, wrong date. “No, Valentine’s Day,” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t know. Why didn’t you remind me?”

I pointed to his message board where I’d put frolicking red hearts every day this past week. He shook his head and shrugged his apology. In fairness, the card isn’t a Valentine, strictly speaking. It’s teal and gold, not red and pink, and it’s a general purpose card about happiness. It could be a birthday card.

I picked it because of the goldfish. They’re known to have exceptionally short attention spans. Peter is my goldfish.

Leslie, on the other hand, delivered a red and pink, glitter-encrusted card that said, “Happy Valentine’s Day…consider yourself reminded.” She often reminds me to be as direct as possible with my husband, no complicated explanations, no double meanings. He had no trouble remembering she’d brought a shiny red, heart-shaped box of chocolates. We each had one with our breakfast porridge.

I said it was OK that he didn’t remember the day. “You gave me the best present Wednesday…”

“I did? What was it?” He looked pleased with himself.

“…extra-special hugs after our dinner at India Garden.”

“Why’d I do that?”

“We hadn’t been there in a while. You cleaned your plate and mine, it tasted that good to you.”

“I don’t remember.”

“We’ll go again before too long. Maybe I’ll get more hugs…?” I batted my eyes.

He took the hint and hugged me. “Don’t get used to this,” he said, as I knew he would.

Maybe there’s something to be said for predictability.

Chocolates for breakfast. What a way to start the day.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Keep on the sunny side of life.

Posted on February 10, 2016 by judithclarkewrites under Advice, Caregiver, Chores, Problems

For years and years, long before dementia took control of our lives, if I asked Peter to take the garbage out Thursday evening he nearly always refused. His argument was, no one else had theirs out. Only one other house on our block has front curb pick-up, so it isn’t a contest. Finally, I started doing it . It certainly isn’t difficult, and my nagging was nagging at me.

Before daylight one Friday I noticed the blue bin was in the carport. I was positive I’d taken it out. Did the truck go by already? Did our neighbor bring it back? I went out and peeked inside — full. Blast!

Peter must’ve rolled it back the evening before thinking it was empty. He didn’t notice that “empty” was very heavy — the week before we’d had a lot of snow so there’d been no garbage collection at all.

Whether garbage is in or out isn’t a big problem, but it’s a worrisome symptom.

A few days later I was in the pantry when I heard Peter and Nobby come back from their walk. “Knock, knock?” he said, peeking around the door. “Oh! I didn’t think you were here.”

I’d been pouring kibble into Nobby’s metal bowl. “Didn’t you hear the racket?” I asked.

Peter shook his head and pointed toward the carport. “Your car isn’t there.”

This was a Sunday. My car had been gone since Thursday evening. Leslie traded cars with me so she and Martin could take mine to a family ski weekend in West Virginia. “You haven’t noticed my car was gone? We ran errands today in Leslie’s car, remember?”

Of course he didn’t remember. But he’d laughed at me trying to adjust her seat and mirrors while complaining I felt like I was sitting on the road in her much lower car. Even after all this time I can’t seem to remember that he really can’t remember.

Peter no longer fixes meals. He used to make Indian dinners, bubble and squeak, and he always cooked fish. He still makes the best fried eggs. He does them, with supervision. I get out the skillet, eggs, oil, spatula, and put the frozen chips in the oven. I tell him when to start the eggs.

I watched him a few nights ago so “I could see how he did it,” I said. When they were just right, he slid the skillet off the burner, then reached through the grate. “NO-O,” I yelled when I realized what he was doing. He singed his fingers before my yell penetrated. He said he thought he had to twist the “thing” (burner cap) to put out the flame. He wasn’t burned badly, thankfully.

Days like these, “Keep your sunny side up” are words to live by.

Header photo: Eggs over easy

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

What lurks in the shadows of his mind, cont.

Posted on February 6, 2016 by judithclarkewrites under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Remember

Same evening. Further attempts to talk in the noisy restaurant. Same puzzled expression on my husband’s face.

“What do you think it’ll be like fifty years from now?” he asked. He spread his hands and flapped them around.

“Here? This restaurant?”

“No-o. The world. Here. How many people will there be? Will they all fit?”

“Fit? I don’t know.” I said. He poses this sort of question a lot.

“This is a small island you know…” he said.

“Island? What island?”

“England. Scotland. Ireland. Wales.” He nodded, proud of himself.

“Peter, where do you think we…”

He slapped his head. “Oh, silly me. We’re not there, we’re here.”

“Where? Where do you think we are?” I asked.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Virginia?” he said at last, then asked, “Did you know me before I got like this, before my mind went away?

“I did.” I said. “I remember. We met forty-two years ago. Your mind was fine back then.”

“Oh you, you remember everything,” he said.

“Someone has to.” I said. I knew what was coming.

He sighed. “What would you do without me? No, no, I mean…”

“What would you do without me?” I asked, as I always do.

He laughed. “That’s a good one, isn’t it?” He loves his own jokes.

Header photo: Lighthouse, England.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

What lurks in the shadows of his mind?

Posted on February 5, 2016 by judithclarkewrites under Alzheimer's, Laughter, tears

He sat across from me. The restaurant was very crowded, very noisy. Talking wasn’t possible, not really. But Peter kept trying to converse. I reminded him we seldom talk across our own dinner table, so it doesn’t matter if we don’t talk when we’re out.

“But, it’s different,” he said, “when we’re somewhere else.”

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying anyway,” I reminded him.

He nodded and sat back. He studied a spot on the wall behind my head. I watched his face. The V-shaped creases between his brows deepened, his left eye twitched, he shook his head slightly. He was far away.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

He shook his head again. “I’m trying to remember what it was like when I first came here.”

“To America?”

“Yes. Things have changed, but I can’t remember…”

“But that was in 1968! Nearly fifty years ago.”

He nodded.

“I’m going to have to learn to read your mind,” I said.

His eyes brightened. He smiled. “Well, if you do, tell me what you find in there.”

His remark was so apt we broke into laughter. The people at the next table must have wondered what was so funny. If they only knew.

Header photo: Peter, tube station near V&A Museum, London, 2009

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Lefty’s is all right.

Posted on February 3, 2016 by judithclarkewrites under Alzheimer's, Favorites, Laughter

Our favorite restaurant, Lefty’s, recently moved to another location further along Main Street. I was eager to see it, and to eat there. The food is always good.

When our friends Jerry and Shelia visited last week, I suggested we try the new place, but the men wanted a Guinness and fish and chips so they went to Red Robin. We ladies went shopping first, then to Lefty’s. While we chatted, a favorite waiter walked by. I was impressed, I said. “Oh, is this the first time you’ve been here? Your husband was in last week,” he said. “He was with…”

“Bill,” I said “his companion. He didn’t say they’d been here, but then he doesn’t even remember what he’s eaten when they go out, much less where.”

He chuckled. “We always like to see him. He keeps us laughing.”

“That’s Pete,” Shelia said. “He’s been like that as long as I’ve known him.”

“He’s a good customer. We don’t even mind if he doesn’t pay…”

“What? He leaves without paying?” I squeaked. “You do chase him and get the money, don’t you?” (Until a few months ago, Peter walked to Lefty’s by himself occasionally so I could see how it happened without Bill or me to watch him.)

“Nah, we love him, and it doesn’t matter. Evens out anyway because a couple of times he managed to pay twice somehow.”

I thanked him for the kindnesses. Shelia and I laughed, but really, I was embarrassed! Peter gets special service when he goes to Red Robin with Bill or me and now, obviously, he gets special treatment at Lefty’s, too.

As his ol’ granny would have said, “A bit of all right, that.”

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

How deep was my happiness?

Posted on January 28, 2016 by judithclarkewrites under Lifelong, Poetic thoughts, Seasons

Anyone who knows me knows I’m happiest when buried up to my earlobes in snow, luxuriating in the cold, pristine sparkles, the way others roast themselves on sandy beaches.

Softly falls the snow.

December and most of January were “dark days of my discontent” to paraphrase Steinbeck who paraphrased Shakespeare. “Dark” because the ground was brown and bare, the temperatures, moderate. Without crisp white snow, winter is worse than summer in my view.

Kathleen Everett’s blog, “The Course of our Seasons,” moves me. In her, I found someone whose thoughts echo my own. She published this January 16, 2016:

IT IS NOTHING REALLY

Trying to wrest my mood from the dark side,
I cling to the path
well-worn from years of mindless wandering.
that same heaviness plagues my heart,
rending my chest in two.

It is nothing really.

Just the dance on the edge of that cliff—
the one at times I find myself
teetering and scrabbling,
struggling to find firmer ground.

It is nothing really.

Though at this moment
it seems more like quicksand
or a rabbit hole
or a trap door
or something.

But is is nothing,
really.

Kathleen’s poem can be interpreted several ways. When I’m down, I feel that heaviness, see the trap door. Drab, brown weather depresses me. It doesn’t help that my husband is slowly getting more forgetful, more confused, less himself.

Last week’s historic blizzard “Jonas” was a balm for me. Not so Peter. When we lived up north he enjoyed snow nearly as much as I did, well, except the years spring didn’t arrive until mid-May. We snowshoed, cross-country skied, hiked, moved snow and chopped monster icicles.

I’ve always loved to shovel snow, and Peter loved to scrape down to bare ground. When he finished, the edges of the driveway looked as if the snow had been chiseled away.

Jonas started about five a.m. By nine o’clock a mere four inches lay on the ground. I shoveled a path to the backyard for the dog.

Nobby loves snow too.

A cup of coffee later, I went out front to tackle the increasing depths. Peter wouldn’t be far behind, I thought. I made a walking path to the street, another along the sidewalk, a third from street to front door for the mailman. Still no Peter. No mailman either until Monday, though our newspaper lady delivered.

Peter finally emerged Saturday afternoon to scrape the paths I’d made. Sunday morning, glorious and sunny, I took on the rest of the driveway. Thankfully, the snow was like crystallized feathers. Peter got into his old routine. He scraped and sliced, swept and brushed. Together we attacked the icebergs the plows had shoved in our way.

Later, while he Skyped with a friend in England, I heard him say, “No, only a few inches…some places got more, but not here.”

The depth of my happiness was diminished.

Snow-capped sedum.

Header caption: Barely icicles, cold splinters are no northern widow-makers.
“It is nothing really” Kathleen G. Everett ©2011-16

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Dementia isn't funny.

Caregiver Judith Clarke looks for laughs every day.

It was a date.

His sneezes, like his questions, are repetitive.

What can I do?

Well, well, well.

‘Consider yourself reminded.’

Keep on the sunny side of life.

What lurks in the shadows of his mind, cont.

What lurks in the shadows of his mind?

Lefty’s is all right.

How deep was my happiness?