Tag Archives: About time

The worst weeks of my life so far.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Control, Dementia, Favorites, Laughter, tears

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. screen-shot-2016-12-07-at-10-14-53-am

 

 

Be careful what you wish for.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Control, Lost

Faithful readers will know that I’ve carried on for months about my husband’s constant abuse/misuse of his PAL Search & Locate GPS watch. Almost from the first day six months ago he figured out how to get it off.  He used brute strength to force the supposedly secure clasp to release.

“Ooo-o, you are strong,” I might’ve said, batting my eyes to make him laugh at my use of his old joke. But I didn’t say it, nor did I laugh.

I nagged endlessly, trying everything I could think of to get him to leave the darned thing on until I took it off. He wasn’t bothered by how much it cost nor that I’d had to order a new clasp. When I explained I just wanted to keep him safe, to have a way locate him if he got lost again, he tutted and argued that he was safe and he did not get lost.

By chance, the situation resolved itself. One evening, just after the holidays, I noticed that he had not only removed the GPS watch, he’d also removed the watch I’d given him for Christmas several years ago. Both were on the table beside his chair. I picked them up, put the high tech one in the charger on my desk, and lay the trusty Timex nearby.  Then I forgot about them.

The next morning when he was getting ready to take Nobby for his walk, I remembered. Without really thinking about it, I put the GPS one on his left wrist. He didn’t grumble at all, nor did he ask about his “real” watch. He wore his GPS “pal” all day, and in the evening he held his wrist up for me to remove the thing properly.

He’s done that ever since. He doesn’t remember his other watch, and doesn’t seem to mind wearing the chunky one.

A frustrating problem solved serendipitously.

You’d think I’d be happy or at least relieved, but I’m not. He’s forgotten what was such a  monumental grievance for both of us. Another step down the down staircase.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. screen-shot-2016-12-07-at-10-14-53-am

Found: missing ho, ho, ho’s.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Childlike, Dementia, Laughs lost

As the days get shorter, so does my husband’s ability to remember anything — anything — for longer than a few seconds. My ability to laugh through tears has faded with the waning year. Peter’s downward skid is out-of-control, a luge slider run amok.

Even though my journalistic conscience has prodded me to write a post, I’ve been too tired, exhausted really, to come up with anything that would fit my charter: to search out laughs to ease the dementia-clouded days.

Last week, finally, some blog-worthy chuckles presented themselves. I’d combined a trip to Roanoke for our annual  Christmas lunch with having my car serviced at the dealership. Turned out to be a very long day. We did a little shopping, had a lovely lunch at Montano’s and even shared a slice of carrot cake for dessert. Afterwards, we headed to the dealer for a recommended oil change and a quick tweak to my car’s “Eyesight” feature.

“Quick” it was not. What I thought would be an hour’s wait turned into more than three. It was a comfortable enough, pleasant room with free snacks and a TV. I’d taken a book. Peter huffed and wiggled and made endless cups of coffee.  After some time, he asked, “What are you here for?”

“Just service,” I said.

“When will they call you in?”

“What do you mean?”

“When will you see the doctor?” he asked, waving his arms at the other people waiting.

“I’m not waiting for a doctor,” I laughed, “my car is getting checked!”

“Well I didn’t know,” he mumbled, adding, “then why are we waiting?”

“Because we need the car to get home,” I said. “Long walk from here.”

He went back to the old magazine he’d looked at several times. Before long, he asked, “What are you here for?”

I laughed again, explained again, and then again.

Shave and a haircut.

The next day I ginned up a “therapeutic fib” to get my reluctant husband to a barber for a much needed beard trim and shave, plus attention to anything else that needed doing from his neck up. (The day before, I’d tried to lure him into a barber near Montano’s, but he dug in his heels at the door like a five-year-old going for his first haircut. He would not budge.)

This day I made an appointment.

I faked a note from Leslie to encourage Peter to cooperate and asked his Thursday helper, Mark, to give the card to Peter and say Leslie wanted him to get spruced up — he’ll do whatever she tells him to do. Mark endured the barber shop trip in my stead and took photos for me.

Pete spiffed

Afterwards Peter looked quite spiffy with his beard trimmed neatly, neck shaved, eyebrows tamed. I praised him lavishly, but he was confused. “What are you on about?” he asked, irritated.

“Your hair! Your beard! You look terrific,” I said.

He had no clue why I was gushing — he hates gushing. For all his grumbling, he’d dozed right off in the chair and awakened well groomed, without even knowing anything had happened.

 

 

Header: Peter sleeps in barber’s chair.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. screen-shot-2016-12-07-at-10-14-53-am

Find Peter!

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Control, Dementia, Lost

Nearly two months have passed since Peter took a five-hour walk away from home. That’s eight weeks of frustration for both of us, him because I had to follow along when he walked Nobby, and me because I had to follow along when he walked Nobby. I’d learned the hard way that I couldn’t let him go by himself any longer.

It was mid-July before I decided on and ordered Peter’s PAL (Protect and Locate) device sold under the umbrella of International Project Lifesaver.  Then, several more weeks passed and multiple shipping hiccups occurred before it arrived, just hours before we left for a ten day visit to Carolynn and Bill. Not that I had any warped ideas that I could set it up myself!

Leslie and Martin applied all their considerable technological know-how and stick-to-itiveness to get it working while we were gone. Even for them it was not easy — “You really could not have done it, Mom” Leslie said — but now, at last, Peter is “free” again.

Happily, and completely unexpectedly, he didn’t object to the clunky-looking “watch.” Yes, it is a digital watch, but more importantly, it’s a tracker too.

“With this,” I told him, “you’ll be be able to walk Nobby by yourself. Without it, you’ll be stuck with me going along every time.” With no hesitation he chose his new PAL over me tagging along. No doubt about where I am on the totem pole!

He had a lot of questions, but then he would. Tucked inside his blurring brain there is still DNA with “engineer” written on it. “How far can I walk?” was his first question.

“Not as far as you walked the last time you walked alone,” I said, my left eyebrow on high alert. His slight nod told me he remembers, if foggily, that he walked a long way the wrong way in hot sun. Rightly or wrongly, I continue to force him to remember what he’d like to forget.

His second question was, “Will it tell me when I’ve gone too far?”

The short answer was, No. Later, it occurred to me that I should have said, If you’d ever agreed to using a cell phone, then I could call you when the tracker shows you’ve gone too far, or you could call me for help. But that would’ve been thirty-eight wasted words.

Each time he repeated his two questions, I reminded, “All you have to do is walk. I have to be ‘tuned in’ for a possible alert, check my phone for texts, the computer for a map, and be ready to  jump in the car to pick you up.”

He shook his head. “How does ‘it’ know?”

“Smoke and mirrors and a satellite in the sky,” I said.

He shook his head again. So many technological advances have taken place since the last time he was curious enough show interest.

It took all Leslie’s considerable teaching skills to pound the multiple steps into my head. She already knew I had little capacity to absorb any more high-tech stuff. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a lesson plan labeled, “Teaching Mom.”

Nobby is little miffed.

Header: Nobby anxiously watches for his master.

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. screen-shot-2016-12-07-at-10-14-53-am

Caregiver’s worst nightmare.

Posted on by under Advice, Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Dementia, Experts say

Five weeks have passed since Peter went for a walk without Nobby, without my knowing, and without realizing he was on his way to lost.

Five weeks that I’ve been on alert setting door alarms, walking with him when he takes the dog out, researching a tracking device he would tolerate.

Hounding, watching, nattering.

Five weeks trying to make him understand that he can no longer walk out with or without the dog. Five weeks of him slamming doors and stomping to the basement. No, he doesn’t want to be “locked in,” tracked, or told what to do. Who would?

Other caregivers have a much worse go than I do. Others aren’t as fortunate to have outside help and helpful daughters, plus the wherewithal to cover expenses. But that doesn’t stop me fuming over our situation, or trying to make things right when they can go so wrong, so quickly, with no warning.

My caregiving ways reflect my general “fly in the face of convention” attitude. I’ve never done things the easy way. “My way or no way,” Peter would say say. Oh, I do read articles, blogs, and books about dementia and I’ve learned. I’ve listened to advice from the doctor, our daughters, and friends, and I’ve acted upon much of it.

But, I do ignore some of the basic no-no’s for dementia caregivers including don’t argue, don’t ask if they remember this or that, and don’t point out that they’ve forgotten again.

Peter is “luckier” than many. Although his dementia is markedly worse than just a few months ago, he does understand what is happening to him, not because I’ve used the dreaded A-word, but because he just seems to “get it.” He’s an engineer, a problem-solver, who still has a determined stick-to-it-iveness that helps. I’m sure of it.

So, I do point out things that are arguable, I do ask if he remembers then tell him a story about the memory I’ve mentioned, and he does laugh with me and the family when we point out, jokingly, that he’s forgotten something.

Wrong? Perhaps, but for us, for him, it seems to work, seems to keep him in the moment, the now, however fleetingly.

A few days after his long walk, I drove him from our house along the route I think he took to end up five miles away. He was amazed. “Why’d I do that,” he kept asking. “How did I get there?” I did it to impress upon him, as much as possible, that his “escape” was daring and scary, for him and for all of us who searched.

Ignoring the wisdom, until a month ago I did let him walk the dog on his own, and I looked for tracking options only for future reference. Even having experienced that worst nightmare, I think I’d do the same again. He had his freedom as long as possible and now it isn’t possible anymore.

Would I recommend my approach to others? I would not. Every situation is different and what works for one likely wouldn’t work for another.

Oh, yes, it could have been a lot worse. The ending could have been tragic, but it wasn’t. Peter’s still here to growl at me every time I say he must wait to walk until I put my shoes on. He still has to listen while I explain why it’s necessary.

And he’s still here to make me laugh.

Header: Rainstorm over Alaskan waters, 9/7/06

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. screen-shot-2016-12-07-at-10-14-53-am

Wrinkles in time, smoothed.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Chores, Dementia, Nag, Task

Peter has been sleeping much later in the mornings, sometimes until ten or after. On the one hand, that gives me time to write or go for my morning walk, but on the other hand, I wait for him to get up so I can do laundry, tidy the bedroom, or maybe run an errand. While I’m glad to have extra time to myself, I’m also testy with him because he sleeps undisturbed while I wait to get my chores done.

Ironing, for instance.

Peter wears long-sleeved dress shirts every day and they need, if not ironing, then at least touch-ups. True, I’m the one who nags him to put his shirts into the hamper, while he insists they’re clean even when they’re so stiff they could walk to the laundry room. If he hasn’t spilled soup on the front, he says they’re fine.

I seldom have time, or more correctly, seldom have the inclination, to iron his shirts, or anything else, anymore. Recently, when he asked if he could help me, as he does several times a day, I suggested he iron shirts. And he did! He does a better job than I do, although he thought eight shirts were too many to do in one afternoon. Humph.

The next time he asked if he could help, I again suggested he iron shirts. Those shirts still hang, wrinkled, in the guest room closet. He doesn’t want to do them and I’ve decided to go on strike. He can no longer do most things around the house, but he can still use an iron and, well, he’s the one who wears the shirts. If he chooses not to iron them, then wrinkled they’ll be.

It isn’t really about the ironing, of course, it’s about all the other tasks that pile up like unmated socks. Another iceberg lurking.

If it were possible to smooth the “wrinkles in time” to squeeze more hours into a day, I’d get the iron out…or ask my husband to do it.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. screen-shot-2016-12-07-at-10-14-53-am

Don’t kick the buckets, fill ’em!

Posted on by under Advice, Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Experts say, Helpful hints

There are bucket lists and then there are bucket lists. The former includes trips to take, Screen Shot 2016-03-30 at 10.13.32 AMbooks to read, movies, to see. The latter, “buckets of information,” are different entirely.

Sandy Markwood, chief executive of the National Association of Areas of Agencies on Aging, describes three buckets of information that caregivers must organize — Health, Financial, Legal.

Used to be, I was Org-An-Ized. I had a master list of my lists. But then, as my caregiving responsibilities escalated, daily crises took precedence and my organization crumbled. I had at least managed to fill the Health Bucket with the things Markwood suggested: list of doctors, medications, medical history, health and long term care insurance paperwork, and emergency contacts. The medications’ information is in the kitchen drawer with all our prescriptions. And I make copies for us to carry in our wallets. Peter never remembers he has his own list, and doesn’t understand why he has to carry a list of mine. Both daughters know where pertinent information is, though responsibility rests heavily on Leslie’s shoulders because she lives nearby.

The Legal Bucket contains wills, financial power of attorney, medical power of attorney, living will, and caregiving plan. The latter should be shared with family and anyone else connected to the loved one to help avoid a frantic search for a critical legal, health, or financial document during a crisis.

The Financial Bucket contains birth certificate, mortgage/rental documents, bills, bank records, passwords for online accounts and contact information of financial advisors. I’ve corralled all that at last.

Passwords, necessary to access nearly everything in every bucket for everyone, are maddening to keep up with. Seems every few days I have to change an old one or concoct another for a new purpose. I love the line, I changed my password to “incorrect” so whenever I forget it the computer will say, “Your password is incorrect.”

Except for the time, years ago when I was a single mom, I hadn’t had to do the taxes or pay the bills during our marriage. For most of our thirty-five years, I was in charge of spending, not keeping track.  Anything to do with numbers makes my stomach turn inside out, yet now I’m in charge of the things Peter once could do easily. The best thing I ever did was find an excellent financial adviser. I don’t know how he puts up with me, but somehow he keeps me straight. I strongly advise anyone who walks in caretaker shoes, to find a good financial adviser.

Time was, Peter got cash from the bank every week or so. If I said I needed money he’d hold out some bills for me. But when I tried to pull out a couple he’d tighten his grip so I couldn’t take hold. He was always too quick for me, and we always laughed. I called him affectionately inappropriate names. Now I take care of having cash on hand. When I hold money towards him and grasp it the way he used to do, he still laughs, but I’m not sure he remembers why.

Header photo: Isles of Scilly, England, June 2010.

‘I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.’

Posted on by under Caregiver, Chores, Helpful hints, Remember

Losing car keys doesn’t mean Alzheimer’s disease is lurking, but forgetting what the keys are for might. That’s a simplistic example of the difference between simple forgetfulness, and a more serious problem.

I asked Peter to put some towels into the washer. He went to the laundry room and stood in front of the washer and dryer, muttering. After a few minutes he said, “Which one do you want me to use?”  Since he hasn’t done his own laundry in forty years or more, the question wasn’t too surprising.

On the other hand, I’ve been doing weekly laundry for more than fifty years, but lately I simply forget it until I realize I’m out of underwear! I do know which appliance is the washer, which, the dryer.

Once upon a time I was so organized that my brain was a calendar, neatly compartmented with to-do lists. I never left work without clearing my desk and writing a chronological list of the next day’s projects. When Peter left work, papers were an avalanche waiting to happen. Pens and pencils were strewn like trees in the Midwest after a tornado. Dust bunnies raised families in the crevices of his desk chair.

Now, both his desks look like a military parade: pencils and pens aligned at right angles to the front edge, calendars hung at studied levels — turned to the wrong months however — and stacks of coins in ranks as if on review. His other desk, the one dedicated to model ship building, is arrayed similarly: special brushes and tiny tools in rows, regimented.

My desk looks as if the recycling truck backed up and dumped a load of papers, boxes, sticky notes and Mentos wrappers. Every few weeks I attempt to organize my desktop and files. The mess is viral.

Household chores? While Peter attends to his self-assigned tasks, I seldom even clean the coffee maker anymore. For many years I had a rigid first-Friday-of-the-month routine: run vinegar through the coffeemaker, use baking soda and vinegar in all the drains, and turn the mattress, end-to-end one month, side-to-side the next.

pea_princessBack then, flipping the mattress made us laugh so much we couldn’t lift the thing. Neither of us remembered, one time to next, how to do it, end-to-end or side-to-side, without demolishing the ceiling fan. Last week, I realized we hadn’t turned the mattress in months. I called Peter to help.

We’ve never agreed how to do it. In the past we laughed at our contortions, but this time we barely managed to heft it, much less laugh.

Time was, I vacuumed and dusted obsessively. Now I have Carri who does it for me, and if she’s away, I don’t bother. Peter likes to “Hoover,” as he calls it, but insists on parallel lines across the rugs. He combs their fringed edges with a fork. I wish his hair looked as good.

We’ve reversed habits. His new obsessiveness stems from a need to have control. My escalating lack of organization says I have more chores than I can manage, so I let everything slide. Peter can’t help himself, but I really must revive my routines.

A magic wand might help!

Screen Shot 2016-01-13 at 7.26.23 PM

Quote at top: Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

There’s always hope.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Dementia, Statistics don't lie

The Longest Day™ is a team event to raise funds and awareness for the Alzheimer’s Association. Held annually on the summer solstice, [June 21, 2015] the duration of this sunrise-to-sunset event symbolizes the challenging journey of those living with the disease and their caregivers. Carolynn Lyman of the Cancer Program is leading the ‘Poppy’s Hope’ team.
— Announcement in Faxton-St.Lukes Hospital newsletter, Utica, NY

I’d planned to organize an event for The Longest Day ™ this year, which coincidentally, is Father’s Day…tomorrow. But a couple of nasty bugbears, Stress and Anxiety, got in my way and totally discombobulated me for a time. It’s been said that the caregiver’s days are 36-hours long, and I believe it, even though Peter and I are “lucky” because he’s not in as bad a shape as some are…yet.

11160623_10205473130926745_8702219380988922005_o_3

‘Poppy,’ Carolynn, me, May 2015.

Carolynn picked up on the thread I’d dropped and started “Poppy’s Hope.” As it turned out, she didn’t have time to organize the golf tournament she’d dreamed up, so she went for a simple Facebook announcement and got a write-up in the hospital newsletter where she’s the Radiation Oncology Charge Nurse.  Though only up for a short time, her site has raised more than 535 dollars.

Screen shot 2015-01-20 at 4.22.16 PM

Purple streak.

Then, Leslie got in on the act too by posting a photo and a plea — “Wear purple for Peter” — to her Facebook page. I’m not an enthusiastic Facebooker, but I changed my profile and header photos to show the purple streak in my hair and my purple sage. Purple is the Alzheimer Association’s color.

Screen shot 2015-06-19 at 1.46.40 PM

Martin, left, Peter, me, Leslie, April 2014.


Every day is the longest day for Dementia sufferers. In the inaugeral year, 2012, The Longest Day™ events raised 236 thousand dollars and attracted more than 635 partcipants on 200 teams. Now in its third year, teams are as varied as the participants. Activities range widely, from playing contract bridge, quilting, and gardening, to golf, volleyball, walking, cycling, dancing, and fishing, to name a few.

Yesterday, I received a thank-you letter for the check I sent to the Alzheimer’s Association in lieu of organizing a team activity as I’d intended. A paragraph at the bottom reminded me of something I already knew: Alzheimer’s is the sixth leading cause of death in America and the only one among the top ten that can’t be prevented, cured or even slowed significantly. In Virginia alone, 130 thousand people, aged 65 and older have the disease. Worldwide, the number of Alzheimer’s and related dementia sufferers is a staggering 44 million!

Screen shot 2015-06-20 at 10.30.20 AM

The desire of sage is to render man immortal, according to a late medieval treatise. The sage plant has been praised highly throughout history for its power of longevity. Sage, L. salvia,  means to be in good health, to cure, to save.

If I thought it would help, I’d roll Peter in sage, sprinkle it on his pillow, and rub it behind his ears!

11165067_1122051104475978_1668361203311054294_o

My sage is a huge plant that I moved to Virginia from our garden in upstate New York 17 years ago.

 

Always read the fine print.

Posted on by under Family, Laughter, tears, Remember

Early in May, for some reason, it occurred to me to check the expiry date on my English husband’s permanent resident visa, previously called “green card.” Good thing I looked — expiration, May 28, 2015.

Ten years ago, we had a nice day trip to Charlotte, NC to renew both his card and his British passport. This year, a trip anywhere is an ordeal, so I did a search to see if USCIS is doing on-line registrations. Yes-s!

There was a stumbling block on the very first page. Peter couldn’t remember the year he came to the U.S, but he knew he was 28, so he added that age to his birthyear, 1938, and came up with 1966. (I was pretty sure he “got off the boat” eight years before we met in 1974.) The month and date, port of entry, and other necessary details like his alien registration number were lost in his fog. Finally, I broke the code of alpha/numerics on his passport and deduced he arrived in New York City on Wednesday, November 9, 1966.

Over several days I filled in the six pages. When, I called Peter to read over the document, he stumbled over his mother’s first name, Mabel.

“Everyone called her Doll,” he argued.

“Yes, but that was her nickname,” I reminded him. “Her given name was Mabel.” After some discussion he agreed.

When he read through his own physical characteristics he said his eyes were not hazel. “What color are they then?” I asked, deleting hazel.

He went to the mirror and after studying his eyes for some time, he said, “I’d call them bluey/browny/green.”

I typed h-a-z-e-l into the blank again.

After he’d read the fine print and signed electronically, he asked, “Am I good forever now?”

I told him he’d have to renew in ten years. “But, you’ll be 87, so they probably won’t chase you down.”

“You mean without the card, I could’ve…”

Peter with his favorite pint, London Pride.

Peter with his favorite pint, London Pride.

“Oh, darn,” I laughed, picking up on his thread, “yes, you might have been deported if I hadn’t realized your card was going to expire. You could have been shipped back across the pond to spend the rest of your life in the corner pub… singing your bawdy songs…and…”

“Playing ‘arrahs’,” he said wistfully. [Arrahs = arrows = darts to my Englishman.]

“Sorry, I already I clicked ‘send,'” I said. “But in 2025, if immigration still wants you, you can go back ‘ome.”

DSC07668