Tag Archives: Cry alone

Leave no stone unturned.

Posted on by under eye of beholder, Help sought, Problems

When you look at a the header photo above  do you see despair? Frustration? Pain? Boredom?

Nope, what you see is my husband sound asleep during what was supposed to be our regular half-hour Wednesday afternoon FaceTime chat. He simply could not keep his eyes open nor say anything that day. When I threatened to sing he managed a weak smile. I prodded him virtually, but he didn’t stir. Short of being able to poke him in the ribs, I could do nothing at all.

The longer I watched, iPad propped in front of me, the more upset I became. This was not normal. He was sleeping so soundly that when his head dropped to the tabletop, he didn’t even startle. I used the time to do what I do when things need sorting: write. I sent an email to the staff person who had alerted me to Peter’s unruly behavior more than a month earlier. At the time, she’d told me he’d been prescribed something to calm his rages. Was he overmedicated perhaps?

“I am…FaceTiming with Peter right now,” I wrote. “He is dead asleep again as he has been most times I’ve attempted to talk to him in recent weeks. Is this a result of the calming med he’s been on for some time…? If so, [it seems] more a chemical restraint….[I hate] seeing him this way.”

Later I learned that Peter had indeed been up all night. Was he sleeping in the daytime because he’d been wake all night, or because he’d been given more medication thanks to a middle-of-night tear? I didn’t get an answer then, but recently I did. Yes, he’s still taking the med to calm his outbursts, but worse, a new one has been added, not to modify behavior, rather because of his alarming A1C level.

My husband, who always boasted that his weight had been a steady 10.4 stone in English-speak (145 pounds) since he was 18, has ballooned to 11.6 stone (155 pounds). He has a pot belly now, I’m told. The plan is to monitor his blood glucose daily, assuming he’ll cooperate. He’s never at his best first thing in the morning so I do not see him putting up with a jab before he’s had his coffee.

The good news is that his escalating A1C was discovered and is being treated—left untreated, eye, heart or kidney disease could occur. The bad news is the new med can cause increased appetite. 

The nights Peter is awake, he eats whatever he can find. Snacks are available but they aren’t ideal for a diabetic: pudding, Jello, chips for instance. Because he’s always hungry—hunger born of boredom, I think—the dietician has started fixing him a heavier snack late in the day. She is to call me so that between the two of us we can come up with a plan. For a start, since he’s the only resident up in the wee hours, why are snacks even available! He’d likely welcome a cup of tea. Yesterday I delivered new trousers to replace the ones he’d quite literally, busted out of. I put a package of his favorite tea in the parcel. Once I might’ve put in a packet of cookies, but no more.

Since last March he’s been “locked in and locked down” like the rest of us in this pandemic restricted world, unable to walk outside with me or a caregiver or get any exercise at all. It’s no wonder my formerly skinny husband has packed on 0.71 stone?

When we FaceTimed this week it was against the background of a visiting musician playing his guitar and singing old favorites—”On the road again,” “Don’t sit under the apple tree,” “You are my sunshine.” We sang along and chuckled at our feeble efforts to remember the lyrics. 

Through the plexiglass darkly.

Posted on by under eye of beholder, Laughter, tears, Remember

Who would have thought six months ago that this blasted redoubtable pandemic would still have the whole world in its grip come August? When I hugged Peter goodbye that March Friday, who knew my almost daily visits would be reduced to FaceTime, chats through the fence surrounding the facility or, lately, peering at each other through a plexiglass shield?

Now residents’ families can schedule twenty minute visits outside, weather permitting, with their loved one, a recent change. The meetings take place in a secure area, one visitor at a time with no touching, eating or drinking permitted. As should be, the visitor must complete a questionnaire, have their temperature taken and wear a mask.

Brandi had already taken Peter to the shielded area when I arrived yesterday. His eyes popped and he did his “Oh, it’s you,” routine when I walked up. Right away he wanted to know why I had “that thing” on my face. “Because I have jam on my mouth,” I joked. He thought that was pretty funny.

Like the gloomy day, Peter was foggy, a bit more so than usual. It was hard to hear his raspy voice through the plexiglass and his ever more rambling comments made the visit difficult. He brightened, interested, when I told him I’d heard from friends in England. He remembered them, their home where we’d visited many times, and he laughed at the name of the village where they now live—Oxshott. For just that brief bit of conversation he was present, in the moment. I felt better for the glimpse of the old Peter.

When my time was up, he tried to find a crack in the plexiglass to put his hand through. Since we couldn’t hug each other I showed him how to hug himself—arms crossed over his chest, hands gripping his shoulders—while I did the same. He made silly faces, but his eyes were sad. Then, just as I stood to leave, he really looked at me. “Do you have everything you need?” he asked. His concern was apparent.

That tiny shard of clarity—wondering about my circumstances — so surprised me that it brought tears to my eyes. “I’m fine,” I said. My eyes continued to mist over as I walked to my car. It would take more than one cup of tea to make me right.

Header:  Peter’s photo-perfect smile even shines through plexiglass.

 

 

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

It must be said today.

Posted on by under Family, Laughs lost, tears

Today’s post has festered in my brain for days. AWOL for weeks, I needed to reread the last post before I could begin this one. Ach, how could I have forgotten?

For almost six years I’ve written about my husband’s journey along dementia’s twisted paths. Nobby, his golden doodle, has been important to the story. The header on the November 16 post showed Nobby looking glum in a  big blue “cone of shame.” Now, sadly, Nobby is gone. Today would have been his twelfth birthday.

His death two weeks ago was not related to the benign lump I wrote about then. That was a good news day. But not long after Thanksgiving Nobby stopped eating, drank little. Without going into all the details, I’ll just say that after two trips to our veterinarian and a two-night stay, then a referral to the university’s vet school plus two more nights, I learned there was nothing to be done, not really. Palliative care with steroids was a temporary fix.

I made Peter a cup of tea then broke the news to him as gently as I could. “Nobby is very poorly,” I said, “he’s not doing well at all.” I fought tears. He took my hand and asked how old Nobby was. When I told him, he said, “That’s old for a big dog, isn’t it? Will I see him again?” I nodded.

And that was that. Peter had been watching tennis when I arrived. He turned back to the tv as if I hadn’t given him dire news. I was relieved and sad at the same time. Relieved he didn’t react badly, but sad that he hadn’t really remembered his seventieth birthday-present dog then, nor for several months prior. Better that he doesn’t remember, I told Carolynn who was torn. She agreed.

Leslie and Martin helped me bathe Nobby with waterless shampoo so that he would be clean for a last visit with Peter. The poor fella had lost weight, but he was still handsome. Peter didn’t really acknowledge him except to pet him a few times. He thought he was their Tillie who was smaller, shorthaired and who’d died eighteen months before.

Nobby was a very special dog who, for eight years, visited five different nursing homes on Wednesdays with Peter and his companion Bill. Anyone who ever met Nobby fell in love with his gentle demeanor, his kind eyes and his fluffy white coat. For the past two years nearly, his therapy dog visits were limited to the facility where Peter lives, with help from Mark, another stellar companion. The eyes of residents and staff alike lit up when Nobby arrived.

Nobby didn’t get the water dog genes.

Laughs have been scarce these past weeks, but I’ll always be able to laugh remembering how that dog, who supposedly was a “water dog” (golden retriever/standard poodle), was afraid to go in deeper than his knees. He would not— maybe could not—swim, and he didn’t like it when any of his “people” were in the river. I’ve often been asked if he was a good guard dog. No, I’d say, the only time he barks is when we’re in the water and then he’s as annoying as a pack of chihuahuas on a sugar high.

Like his master, Nobby didn’t like the river.

Header photo: Nobby chases after Peter, November, 2017.

 

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

I’ve run out of ‘fake.’

Posted on by under Caregiver, Childlike, Control, Problems

I’ve been called a “fake it ’til you make it” type and that’s probably accurate. I do try to look on the bright side, to laugh rather than cry. And I am able to get things done while projecting a measure of confidence—usually. Lately, however, I’ve run out of “fake.” After nearly 16 years grappling with my husband’s journey from a “mild dementia” diagnosis to “can’t rule out Alzheimer’s,” I’ve spun out.

My spin has shocked me because life has actually eased in recent months. Peter is more settled and, in fact, he’s turned into an 81-year-old version of a ten-year-old class clown. He flirts, he lays on his English accent, he entertains residents and staff alike with his antics. He’s in as good a place as he can be physically and mentally. He has his favorites amongst the ladies who he looks out for and helps when he can, although the other day I watched him guide a resident into the wrong room. She knew it wasn’t hers, but he insisted. I ended up directing her across the hall to her door.

So why have I fallen apart? I should be less stressed, but I’m not. Have I spread myself too thin?

For one thing, with Peter more comfortable I’ve turned my attention to other problems. Although he gets good care in the best facility around, I have some gripes. For one thing, his not taking his medications is at the top of my list. It is simply not acceptable that he gets away with his shenanigans to avoid taking them. Again, when I walked in Friday afternoon, his three morning pills were lying on the table in plain few!

I’ve complained about other issues and they’ve been acted upon. That’s good. So now I’m considering ways to get the large raised flower bed dug over so residents—particularly the men who crave more activity—could plant flowers and more vegetables than they are able to grow in the one small raised plot. Then too, the gazebo should be spruced up — Peter decided the other day that the ceiling should be painted a beautiful sky blue — and the outdoor furniture should be replaced. How nice it would be to have a table and chairs in the gazebo where residents could sit, have a snack, play a game. Where we could have a cup of tea without balancing it on our knees. Is that too much to ask for the amount we pay for monthly care?

I don’t think so, but at the moment I’m stalled, burned out, stuck. To aid the burn-out, I’ve been advised to stop visiting him so often, usually four to five days a week. It is wearing and since he never remembers I’ve been there, I should allow myself to take days off. That’s tough. I want to visit because sometimes, sometimes, there’s a glimmer of the man I married, and I always get a hug before I leave. I always hope that somehow—osmosis?—my visits will have made his day better.

How many times over these years have I been told that the caregiver needs to take care of herself? Well, I admit to being stuck between a rock and a hard place lately, but I’ve taken steps. I’m learning to compartmentalize, I’m exploring mindfulness, I’m breathing deeply to meditative music, I continue my every other week massages, and I continue to look for laughs every day. So far I haven’t stilled my spinning brain by much, but I’m a work in progress.

Tiny flowers thrive in crevices in long-abandoned Inishmurray, County Donegal, Ireland, 2009

Header photo: Guillemots cling to tiny ledge on Cliffs of Moher, County Clare, Ireland, 2009.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

The door doesn’t buzz for me.

Posted on by under Caregiver, Control, Help sought, Lost, Problems

This wasn’t a stick-of-butter-in-July-sun meltdown. No, it was more like a snowman-in-shade-at-34°F.  It had been lurking for several weeks. Things, little things, had begun to pile up when another snag with our long term insurance company turned me into a weepy, hand-wringing mess.

I don’t cry easily or often, but that day my eyes flooded as I stried to decipher the latest problem. As far as trying to deal with this particular issue, I’d bottomed out. I was doubly upset because I knew had to ask for help. For most people, I think, it is difficult to seek help from family or from anyone else for that matter, or even admit to needing it.

Leslie,  Martin and I were at their river place for the weekend. Les knew something was up and asked several times Friday evening if I wanted to talk. I stalled. “Nope, not yet, not now, not this evening, maybe tomorrow,” I said. But it was Sunday morning before I found my voice. I’d planned to leave by early afternoon to visit Peter, so if I were going to talk, it had to be then. “I’ve lost myself” I think I said, or maybe, more accurately, “I’m lost.”

“You. Are. Not. Getting. Alzheimer’s, Mom. You. Are. Fine.” Leslie reacted as she always does when I joke that I’ll probably have to move in with Peter soon.

“No-o, I know,” I said. “I am forgetful and addled a lot of the time these days, but this has been a really terrible year. The stress has finally gotten to me.”

“It has been terrible,” she agreed. And I thought, awful not just for me trying to bear up, or for Peter trying to understand, but for the rest of the family too, especially Leslie and Carolynn. They’re being brave for me. And strong.

I cringe when friends say how well I handle our situation, because a lot of the time I’m coming unwound. As always, utter panic grips me when I’m faced with bills to pay, numbers to compute, or when anything to do with financial matters smacks me upside the head. I’ve always fallen back on the excuse that I don’t do numbers. I do words.

I have no need to fret, but still I do. Luckily, we have good long term care insurance coverage, but unluckily, the company has penalized me for their own ineptitude more months than not for the seven years I’ve filed claims. Last summer, to deal with worsening, inexcusable treatment, I did what I do best: I wrote a letter and sent it to the company’s CEO. In detail and with exhibits, I described the hurdles I’d had to jump to get reimbursed. That letter got results and a phone call within hours. And within two days the nearly 12 thousand dollars owed were deposited to my account. For nearly six months there were no further hassles. Then it started again, and with other niggly things piled on too, the weight of a year’s worth of anguish bore down.

Slowly, but steadily, I began to melt

Leslie rolled her eyes, not at my fragile state, but because I hadn’t mentioned the issues sooner. “Mo-om, this is something I, we, can help you with. You don’t have to do this on your own. You’ve got enough on your plate!” She was right of course.

Well, now that I’ve exposed my distress here, I realize, once again, I shouldn’t not ask for help. Peter is doing as well as can be expected and I am fine as my daughter reminds everytime I buckle, 

When I left Peter yesterday and walked toward the door into the lobby, the alarm didn’t buzz. I punched in the code anyway. Nothing. I tried again then started to laugh at myself. The alarm didn’t go off because I have no ankle band to trigger it. I can just open the door and leave. Hm, not so funny after all.

Header: Snow storm Banff, British Columbia, August 29, 2010.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Right or wrong? Left or right? Here or there?

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Helpful hints

Thoughts about my ability to live in this new world where I’m practicing to be a widow rattle around in my head like stray coins clanking in the clothes dryer.

When will I, or will I ever, sleep on the other side of the bed. When will I, or will I ever, stop walking around the bed on my middle-of-the night treks to the bathroom, when I could just roll out the left side?

Will I ever sit on the other side of the kitchen table where Peter always sat?

Will I ever be able to clear the cedar closet of the suits he wore to work (once he realized he had to wear a suit to work) or the Burberry all-weather coat he never ever wore, or the cowboy boots we spent hours shopping for in Santa Fe and that were too nice to wear?

And will I ever stop being his caregiver?

The answer to all the above is, probably not. Anyway, Peter isn’t gone, he’s just removed from the life we lived together.

It just wouldn’t be right to sleep on the left side of our bed, or to change my path to the bathroom, or to sit on the opposite side of the kitchen table. And now, even though he’s in a care facility with round-the-clock coverage, his care really is still in my hands. Anyone in care or in hospital needs an advocate because the carers, the nurses, the aides can’t be everywhere, every time, all the time.

But that’s neither here nor there.

I have no choice but to be Peter’s caregiver as long as he lives—or as long as I do—and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I know, if our positions were reversed, he’d take care of me. Oh, he wouldn’t bring me tea and he wouldn’t fluff my pillow, but he would make me laugh.

I’ve learned from my husband how to laugh at myself and life and him, always him.

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Lemons? Squeeze!

Posted on by under Caregiver, Chores, Problems

Just when I thought I couldn’t make any more lemonade from the lemons that landed in my juicer, encouragement from casual acquaintances has rejuvenated me.

All along, family and longtime friends have been supportive as Peter and I struggled along the hellish road paved with plaques and neuro-tangles. He is largely unaware that support is even needed, but I’ve welcomed every kind word, every smile, every hug, note, email or call. I’ve been surprised—no, amazed—by the helpful ideas and kindnesses from the pharmacist, Peter’s helpers Mark and Bill, the courtesy van driver, the mailman, the waiter, Nobby’s groomer, and from my daughters’ friends and colleagues, many of whom I don’t know.

Even though their main concern is for Peter, nearly all ask how I’m doing. Do you mind coming home to an empty house? one asks. Are you afraid in the evenings, asks another. Is it hard to eat alone? someone else wonders. How do you do all the things it took two of you to do before?

Actually, no, I don’t mind coming home to an empty house, no, I’m not afraid in the evenings, no, I don’t have a problem eating alone, and in reality, I’ve been taking care of the things we shared for a long time. Oh, I wish I didn’t have to deal with the taxes, or take care of the bills, or remember to get gas for the car and the lawnmower, or decide how much or how little to buy at the grocery.

My husband’s slow, ten-year decline forced me to get used to the idea that there was no way back. These past five years the downward tack has been more rapid and way worse.

In truth, I’ve been practicing to be a widow most of my adult life. I was a divorced mom with two young daughters in my thirties. Peter and I were in our early forties when he finally agreed to marriage—he dragged his feet for seven years. We’d never lived together, nor even in the same town, so marrying again took some getting used to for both of us. We were both married to GE too. He traveled a lot, but my job was local so I came home every night and walked the dog. Fred didn’t talk much but he was a nice companion.

Because I retired 10 years before Peter, I was still on my own most of the time. His travel schedule never eased, but I was fine working from home with Fred and new puppy named Decker for company.

But, when Peter retired he hadn’t forgotten I’d promised we could move back south. And suddenly we were together All The Time. No longer could I have what he dubbed “twigs and berries” for lunch, or pasta tossed with black olives, fresh tomatoes and fresh Parmesan for dinner. No, it was meatandpotatoes every evening. Home Together.

He spent days cycling, woodworking, gardening, puttering. I continued to read, write, garden and, a newfound luxury, lunch with friends. If we were home at noon, he worked a crossword puzzle while I read a book. At dinner we talked a bit, but chatters we are not.

Now, again, we don’t live together. I know it’s easier for me than for him. I’m in the same place—home—while he’s in a strange new environment that will never feel like home no matter how hard I try to make it seem so. He’s still as solitary as he ever was and so am I. The upside, and there is one, we talk more now than we ever did, we laugh as much, and the “lovey-dovey” stuff, Peter’s term, has returned. I visit four or five days a week, and I’m greeted with bear hugs and squeezes. Even though the situation isn’t good, and the reason for it is horrible, it isn’t as bad as it could be.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

2

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. 

 

 

Love and loneliness sit together.

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

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to write a post about Peter’s acceptance of his new wrist-hugging PAL. Less than two weeks after I introduced him, he rebelled:
He tries to take the “watch”off, by pulling, tugging, fiddling with the locked clasp. (I have the unlocking device.)
He purposely ignores and/or forgets — a bit of both, I think — the time I ask him to to return.
He gets mad when I pick him up after tracking him, way out of range, an hour later.
When I put a note on his watch to remind when to be home, he stuffs it in his pocket and forgets about it. As he would, of course.
He always insists he knows where he is when he’s out walking, but when I ask where, he says, “I don’t  know, but I know.” I actually understand what I think he’s trying to say.
When I pick him up after he and Nobby have been gone way too long, he doesn’t recognize me or my car. When I beckon to him, he waves politely, and keeps walking. Nobby knows and he’s tired. He drags Peter to the car.
Because my paper note didn’t work, I try to write on his hand. Angrily, belligerently, he jerks away. “The only option,” I say, “is that I walk with you.” I set the alarm on my phone for fifteen minutes and walk along. Though he’d insisted he would be back, when my alarm beeps, he says I didn’t tell him he was supposed to be home at a certain time.
“I will not be told when and where I can walk,” he says repeatedly. “You don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.” I try to make him understand that I want to make sure he’s safe. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters, stomping like a child.

Ah, I don’t blame him for any of it. He can’t help it, I know that. I’d hate it too. Everything, everything, about dementia — Alzheimer’s — sucks! I’d be way worse if I were in his shoes.

To anyone who has ever known my husband, these words don’t describe the lovable, affable Peter of their acquaintance, the man they worked with, laughed with, caroused with.

He isn’t the lovable, affable Peter any longer. He knows it. I know it. He hates it, I hate it. At least I still see brief glimpses, some sparkles and shy smiles of the man I fell in love with.

I created a piece that is a tribute to life and society. Love and loneliness are a part of society and The Lovers’ Bench combines them both. At one point or another in our lives, we all sit on this bench,” artist Lea Vivot says of the entranced couple and the lonely woman beside them.
Header: Lea Vivot’s “The Lover’s Bench,” Montreal’s Botannical Gardens, 2009.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

‘Peaks and valleys,’ he said.

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

We were an instant couple, Peter and I, when we met forty-some years ago. At the time, I was a struggling single mom with two young daughters to raise. “Peaks and valleys,” Peter would counsel when I fretted, “life is all peaks and valleys.”

I’ve thought about his mantra recently and wondered, would he even understand the meaning of the words now. As his dementia worsens the valleys are deeper and wider, the peaks, fewer.

A week ago, we teetered on the edge of an abyss.


The day started beautifully, definitely a “peak.” Soft warm breezes encouraged me to garden and Leslie came for lunch and cards. Perfect. Peter used her visit as an excuse to take his lunch to the basement where he’d watch t.v. Two hours later, when I yelled to tell him tea was ready, the silence below screamed. The basement was dark.

I dashed upstairs calling his name. Gone.

Gone!

He’d sneaked out while Leslie and I sat just outside. I use “sneaked” advisedly because he’s done it a few times. He has a “stealth” mode that allows him to slip away. Nobby, usually at his side, wasn’t with him because for the previous four days he hadn’t walked at all. His woeful puppy eyes told us his old arthritic knees ached.

Leslie took charge immediately, while I, heart-hammering and generally useless, attempted to follow her orders. She called the police, family, friends, told me to send photos of Peter to her, posted Facebook messages. With three photos on her phone, she sped off to nearby businesses — grocery, restaurants, bakery, wine shop, hairdresser. I stayed home to answer phone calls and texts, to be there in case he came back on his own. I called friends to be on the lookout and soon, unbidden, Peter’s carers, Karen, Bill and Mark, showed up to offer help and support.


The power of Facebook startled me, a hesitant user. Re-posts popped up quickly. Granddaughter Samantha, who lives in Washington, DC, has a friend with a niece who’s interning with our local EMT squad. Some four hours after I discovered he was gone, the young woman, thanks to her aunt’s post, spotted Peter on the steps of a church on the northern edge of town.

Meanwhile, son-in-law Martin, directed by Sam 267 miles away, went to collect Peter. Sam was still on the phone with her dad when Peter got into his car. “Want to talk to him?” Martin asked Sam.

She said yes, even knowing her Dad-Dad hates phones. “How you doin’, Dad-Dad?”

He chuckled. “Well, Luv, I thought I was going to get away,” he said, “but they caught me.” Hours walking in the hot sun, no hat, badly sunburned, no water,  tired and confused, he was still ready with a joke. Just after seven Martin brought him home. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” he said.

He hugged me so tightly I feared for my ribs. “No, not in trouble, but Steps. Will. Be. Taken,” I said, raising my left eyebrow to high-threat-warning level. He shook his head and gazed at the roomful of people without seeing them.

“Why did I do that, where did I go,” he asked over and over.

“If you don’t know why, then no one does,” I said, “and where you were is a mystery to all of us.”

Steps have been taken. Leslie installed door alarms that screech when the doors are opened and I’ve chosen a bracelet-style gps that will help me keep track of him. He’ll hate it.

In the meantime, we walk Nobby together. Peter doesn’t like it because he wants to be out in the neighborhood on his own with his dog. I don’t like it either because the half hour they walked was thirty minutes to myself, to read, write, or do nothing at all.

In that one afternoon, our lives changed more dramatically than the day, years ago, when the doctor diagnosed “early dementia.”

From now on the peaks will be ever smaller, the valleys, broader and more difficult to traverse.

Header photo: Victoria Falls, Zambia, September, 2005.
Bottom photo: Alaska Range, Mt. KcKinley in the distance, 2006.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

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