Peter could not remember how to do the simplest of jobs, he was grumpy because I was “telling him what to do,” and I was grumpier because I had to repeat myself endlessly. Meanwhile nothing got done.
Besides, it was an ugly windy day, completely unlike what the weather forecaster predicted.
Late in the afternoon, Peter came to me and asked, “Is there anything else I can do wrong?”
He had a plaintive smile, and of course I melted. “I’m sorry I’ve been so grouchy,” I said.
“No, you haven’t, don’t even say that,” he said. He wrapped me in one of his increasingly rare hugs.
“But you didn’t do anything ‘wrong,'” I said, “you just didn’t do anything.” He loves it when I jab him.
He laughed and danced around the kitchen like an elf. “Ya got me!” he said, and everything was alright again.
Header photo: Wildfire damage in Wyoming, 2011.
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
On the spur-of-the-moment last week, I suggested we go to the DMV to get a photo ID for Peter.
“Why do I need one?” he asked.
“Because your driver’s license isn’t valid anymore,” I said.
“Why’s that?”
“It expired last year.”
“Why?”
“Because you decided you shouldn’t drive anymore. You kept getting lost.”
Inside, I was relieved there weren’t many people waiting. I completed the form for Peter to sign.
“Why are we here?”
“You need to have a current photo ID. You might need to prove who you are.”
He laughed. “Will I get a driver’s license?”
“No, this is only for identification.”
“Whew! That’s good. I get lost when I’m driving.”
“You get lost when you’re not driving,” I said.
“Good one,” he said, and laughed again.
After an hour’s wait, we were called. A nice young man took Peter’s information, then frowned. “Where were you born, Mr. Clarke?”
I waited to see if he would answer. He usually defers to me. A little smile tugged at his mouth and I knew he going to answer in a Cockney accent: “Bouhn in England, in’t oi, mate?” I cut him off quickly. “He was born in London…England. He’s been here on a permanent visa for almost fifty years.”
The fellow conferred with a co-worker. I knew what was coming. “Why didn’t you renew your license last year, Sir?”
“He can’t drive anymore, he has dementia,” I said. But that didn’t fully answer the question. They needed a current photo ID, even though he still looks like the photo on his license.
“Current U.S.passport?”
“He’s a British subject.”
“Current English passport or green card?” he asked.
“Not with us.” So much for spur-of-moment.
He looked at the clock. “If you can go home, get them, and be back before five, I can take care of this today.”
We made the round trip in record time. True to his word, he called us right away, and within minutes Peter had a temporary ID, with the promise that the permanent one would arrive within days.
And it did. When Peter looked at it he said, “Can I drive with this?”
“No, it’s just for identification.”
“Whew, that’s good! I don’t think I should drive anymore.”
For once I didn’t argue.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I stumbled across these haunting lyrics to “Cobweb” by The Coral, an English rock group. If my husband could sing, or if I could, we’d sing this:
There’s a place where the creatures play
I’m going there at the end of the day
Who knows what I’ll find
In the cobwebs of my mind
There’s a face in a photograph
In the attic, beside the map
Closer to the tide
In the cobwebs of my mind
From the watch-house to the marshes
Following the signs to Colwyn Bay
And ships from Eagle’s Way
We stick together through the thick and thin
Let’s go out, that’s where I begin
Now I’m lost inside
In the cobwebs of my mind
There’s a place where the music plays
I’ll meet her there at the end of the day
Who knows what she’ll find
In the cobwebs of my mind
When she moves her beauty falls
In the garden the masters call
She knows where I hide
In the cobwebs of my mind
She reads my eyes
She reads my eyes
Header photo: Cobwebs envelope our beriberi.
2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
Years ago, when I was a single mom, my tools for household repairs were glue gun, duct tape, and WD-40. If those didn’t do the job, whatever needed fixing remained broken.
Where’s the glue gun?
Then I met Peter. After our first date forty years ago, I brought him home to meet my young daughters. He made an impression on them, as he had on me, but when he looked beyond us, at our house, he shook his head and rolled his eyes. He brought his tool box to our second date.
From then until five or six years ago, he fixed all sorts of things with ease, built and refinished furniture, made games and toys, painted and wall-papered, took care of the cars, grocery-shopped, and occasionally cooked meals.
He can no longer do any of those things, nor does he notice they need doing. For a while he was mad at himself because even simple tasks were beyond him. Now he doesn’t seem to care.
I care.
I care that he doesn’t notice, that he can’t do little jobs, that he can’t care. It frustrates each of us in different ways, though there’s a common denominator — dementia.
Household repairs piled up undone, but I long since surrendered my glue gun. Then I realized that a member our writers’ group writes in his spare time, but is a handyman by day! Several members of the group have used him and all speak highly of his work.
John! He studies the problem, figures out what should be done, what parts he’ll need, and arrives on time — often with bounty from his garden — to do the work.
And Peter likes him, he really likes him. Usually, if someone he doesn’t know comes to the house he hides upstairs to work on his Cutty Sark model. But from the first, he laughed with John as if they were old buddies.
Last week, John asked Peter if he’d like to go to Lowe’s with him to get supplies for my most recent to-do list. Peter was out the door before the question mark arrived at the end of the sentence. He returned laughing and John was amazed he’d talked about such a variety of subjects — WWII, soccer, cars, “Generous” Electric— common topics for my husband who had a new audience in John. Peter’s short-term memory is long gone, but he remembers the good old days.
That evening I told him I was surprised he’d been willing to go to Lowe’s spur-of-moment. “I don’t get to go everyday like I used to,” he said, a nod to when he could still drive himself wherever he wanted to go.
My to-do list for John grows daily, and I’m thrilled he’s “on call.” I think I’ll pass these fixes on to him. Might come in handy sometime!
Great pumpkin drop.
Q. How do you fix a broken mallard? A. Duct tape.
Q. How do you fix broken dentures? A. Toothpaste.
Q. How do you fix a stolen rifle? A. Hot glue gun.
Q. How do you fix a broken pumpkin? A. Pumpkin patch.
“How do you fix…?” glue jokes. Trevor, the Games Man.Header photo: Restful space, Montreal Botanical Gardens, 20102016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.
Dementia isn't funny. 