Tag Archives: Dates

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. 

Keep calm, carry on and stay six feet apart.

Posted on by under Laughs lost, Numbers count, Sickness & Health

Bad enough that the months since Christmas have been dreary, at least in our area. Bad enough that Peter was sick several times during that period with a combination of problems. Bad enough that laughs were scarce.  Bad enough that in these nearly three months I haven’t been able to write a single post.

All that is just too much oh woe, poor me, poor us when the COVID-19 virus has the entire world in its clutches.

The facility where Peter lives is closed to visitors now and I’ve isolated myself except for my morning walks and occasional visits with friends outside and six feet apart. Thanks to Mark, Peter’s companion, we were able to Face Time once before Mark, too, was barred from going to the facility, as were other companions. Peter has never liked to talk on the phone, so talking to me remotely while looking at my face was almost too much for him. “Where are you?” he asked again and again. I’ve talked to him on the phone once since, thanks to Brandy, one of the nurses. He laughed when I explained I couldn’t visit. I doubt he misses me except, perhaps, for my skill at making tea just the way he likes it.

As last month headed towards its once-every-four years extra day finale I came to believe that maybe we, Peter and I, had “had it good” for too long. His October hospitalization slowed him noticeably and he has remained that way ever since. The second and third episodes in January and early February, a combination of terrible cold and UTI, slowed him further. His behavior was extremely erratic,  his already dementia-confused state, far worse

All bad enough to cause my own brain to stall. My muse and I needed something to laugh about.

“Happy 81st,” I wrote in Peter’s birthday card.

“I am not eighty-one!” he said, as I knew he would.

He was right though! He had not turned eighty-one — February 26 was his eighty-second birthday! I laughed at my mistake, but he didn’t. Actually, I’m the one who’ll soon be eighty-one and that’s no laughing  matter to me.

I’d fixed his favorite meal—sausages, mashed potatoes and kale—and it was apparent his appetite, at least, was just fine. He had seconds of everything, plus a big chunk of carrot cake. When he opened his presents from Leslie and Martin, two knit shirts, he tried to give me one. Out of sympathy that I was soon to be eighty-one, I wondered?  I gave him a large jigsaw puzzle of the world. It was for kids really, with large pieces and colorful graphics. When he worked on it he was able to summon up a long ago maths lesson with no problem. Even with the correct puzzle pieces in hand for given spaces, he often had them turned the wrong way ’round. When I told him to turn a piece 45 degrees, or 90, he knew exactly what I meant.

Several months prior to all this, Peter had, for the most part, stopped stripping his room while inventing creative ways to pack up his belongings. No more handkerchiefs jammed in the toothbrush case, no more socks hidden in puzzle boxes, no more pairs of trousers stuffed with all his shirts and underwear. A good thing.

The laundry service had delivered his clean clothes just before I arrived one day not too long ago. I opened his closet to put his things away. It was empty except for one shirt and a tennis ball on a hanger.  Laugh? Yes I did!

 

Header photo: Peter, 82 years and two days, works his birthday puzzle.

 

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Orange is the new faded blue.

Posted on by under Cleanliness, eye of beholder, Task

Last January I vowed to spruce up Peter’s dreary grubby room. When he was admitted to memory care ten months earlier I did the best I could at the time, but knew I could do a lot better when I was less stressed and he was more settled. The look of his room was the last thing on his mind during those first unsettling weeks…months. And really, just coping was all either of us could manage for a long time.

Last week, I finally “spruced” aided capably by housekeeping and maintenance personnel.

An efficient young woman had already mopped the floor—even behind the furniture, mind you—wiped down doors, cleaned splotches off walls and washed windows and screens by the time I arrived. All she had left to clean was the bathroom. She held up the grimy blue bathroom wastebasket. “Do you want to keep this?” she asked with a shudder.

“No, it was here when he moved in,” I said.

“It’s gone!” she said.

Then two cheerful maintenance men, Smothers Brothers types, arrived to shuffle the furniture around. They approved my plan and the new dashes of color. “Needed a woman’s touch in here,” one said. I chuckled. The old look was this woman’s touch too, though lacking any appeal whatsoever. When they finished, I tidied Peter’s things and cleared the clutter, so pleased to make good on what I’d pledged to do so many months ago.

What an enormous difference the bright comforter, new Mickey Mouse poster and change to the furniture arrangement made. The orange paisley comforter replaced one I’d bought nearly 40 years ago for eighteen-year-old Leslie. That faded blue relic was way past saving.

I didn’t expect—and didn’t get—a reaction from Peter to the room’s new look when he and Mark returned from lunch. He never was one to notice little things I did around the house—husbands usually don’t—but I felt better for having accomplished my January goal.Sad to say, another goal dating from September remains unmet. I’d thought my plan to revive the gardens outside the area where Peter and 15 others live was a done deal. Flowering shrubs, evergreens, scented plants and bulbs were proposed for planting this autumn to head-start growth and be ready for springtime bloom. Unfortunately, that project is on hold until the new year, not because I didn’t fight for it as much as I dared.

Next time I visit I’ll take the tulip bulbs saved since Peter’s February birthday, Leslie and Martin’s gift to him. We’ll plant them in a big pot to brighten the view outside his window come March. There’s more than one way to get a head start on spring.

 

Header photo: Bright new look to Peter’s room.

 

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

 

Briefly.

Posted on by under Caregiver, Good news

My husband was a cyclist in his day, not a pro, but darned good even into his late sixties, before Alzheimer’s commandeered his brain. Now 81, he hasn’t ridden in years, so when I got a text message from his Tuesday helper that he’d ridden half a mile at level two in the fitness center, I whooped.

YAY!

Later that same evening there was a second text to tell me that the day had been a good day: “He told me he knew he lived there now and the place was okay. He had a clear moment while we had tea outside the cafe.”

With tea came clarity.

I’d waited one year and four days to hear those words. Some caregivers never hear them, so I count myself lucky.

Peter has seemed more settled in recent weeks, and although I know he doesn’t remember that day or that brief bit of conversation, the thought is tucked in there somewhere amidst those damnable amyloid plaques and neurofibrillary tangles.

His good day made mine.

Header: My May flowers flourish thanks to April showers.

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

 

You don’t say.

Posted on by under Caregiver, Experts say, Fibulets, Helpful hints, Secrets

Some have it, some don’t. Some can think on their feet, some can’t.  I don’t have it and I can’t do it.

My daughters have it, my mother did, so did her sister, and many of my friends do. I mean quick wit, the ability to lead conversation away from touchy subjects. That ability is a gift so important when dealing with someone who has dementia, or indeed for any illness for which the prognosis is dire.

To redirect is a thing in dementia care, a way to direct the loved one away from a topic that is sure to lead to increased stress, a meltdown, anger, tears. To redirect is a mechanism to avoid answering a question that the caregiver doesn’t want to answer and that the patient doesn’t really want to hear.

My corny  excuse to explain my total ineptitude with numbers is, I do words, I don’t do numbers. Likewise, I’m not much of a talker. I use pencil and paper and I listen. As my taciturn dad always said of himself, “Someone has to  listen.”  After the fact, I can always think of what would have been the smart thing, the right thing to say.

For people like me I recommend thinking up a list of things to say when needed. I’ve learned not to say to Peter, “I’m going home,” rather, “I have to leave now.”  I’ve learned not to say, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” rather “I’ll be back,” or “I’ll see you next time.” It’s a way to get around the truth which could well be, I need a day for myself tomorrow, but I’ll see you the next day. I don’t use the word “home” in case Peter were to say, “I want to go home too.” On the very few occasions when he has actually asked when he can leave, I rely on something glib like “when the ravens leave the Tower.” He laughs, I laugh, and his plea is soon forgotten. “Never” is way too harsh an answer even though it’s the truth.

Said euphemistically.

In professional caregiver circles* there’s a controversy about whether dementia patients should be lied to— euphemisms like therapeutic fibs, stepping into their reality, or brief reassurances are sometimes used.  I don’t want to lie, but I bite my tongue if to tell him the truth would make the in-the-moment problem worse.

I’ve read articles that advise talking about simple things, talking down, in other words, to the patient’s level. I  choose not to do that. The way I engage Peter is to tell him what’s going on in the world, the good and the bad. He listens with interest, nods his head or shakes it as punctuation and, at that instant, I truly think he understands. His grasp of my words is brief, but I always feel as if, in that short-lived span, I’ve reached him.

I have a mental file of funny stories to tell him about our two young adult grandkids. He grins as he listens. I share little snippets of gossip I’ve heard, even out of context, and he chuckles. News of our friends interests him, if only for the length of a smile.

As I’ve always done, I do it my way.

Photo memory.

Just yesterday, Peter looked at family photos on his bulletin board and, as he does, counted pictures of himself. He stopped suddenly and said, “There aren’t any pictures of me mum and me dad!  I really should go and see them…’aven’t see them for years, ‘ave I?”

What to say quickly? “Well, you had framed photos of your dad on the dresser,” I said, “but you hid them.”

He was shocked. “Why? Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know….” I gulped  but barged ahead with the truth, “…they both died years ago. Your mum, in 1974 — it’s 2019 now — and your dad, in 1999. He died two days after my dad! We got home from his funeral to find out your dad was gone.”

“No one ever told me! Why didn’t I know?”

“You did know. We got back from Ohio one day and a little more than 36 hours later we were on a plane to England.”

He plopped down to think about this news. While he thought I wrote on his message board:

Mable Doris Walsh Clarke b. April 1, 1908, d. March 30, 1975
John Abraham Clarke b.November 13, 1909, d. November 8, 1999.

When I showed him he said, “How did all that get there,” pointing at my words.

I showed him the green marker I’d used. “I wrote them,” I said.

He waved his hands. “But how did you know all that?”

“I remembered it,” I said. He shook his head. “Someone’s got to remember these things, and you can’t, so I do.” He laughed, as I’d hoped he would, and hugged me.

For once I used the right words.

*”The Memory House / The comforting fictions of dementia care,” Larissa MacForquhar, The New Yorker, October 8, 2018. MacFarquhar is a staff writer, author of “Strangers Drowning,” and an Emerson Fellow at New America.

Header: Peter with his afternoon cuppa.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Ninety-eight days and counting…

Posted on by under Caregiver, Childlike, Control, Numbers count

Ninety-eight days have passed since my husband was admitted to memory care, first for a month’s respite then, sadly, as a permanent resident.

Ninety-eight days with ups and downs as stomach-twisting as a rickety rollercoaster ride.

Ninety-eight days of uncertainty, confusion, frustration, anxiety and sadness. And that’s just my list. For Peter, I’d add to those anger, fear, anguish and longing.

Since those first heart-breaking mid-April days — I remember them as very cold, though they were not — the succeeding weeks have glommed together like cheap paper towels. There’ve been bad days and good, more lows than highs, a few baby steps forward, but more giant steps back. Silly me, I thought when someone else took responsibility for my husband’s safety, feeding and care, I would be able to catch up with myself. Not so. But it’s not about me anyway.

Within hours of his admission Peter had a meltdown that prompted a call from the evening charge nurse. Would I talk to him on the phone to see if that would help? Yes, I would. When that didn’t work, would I come to try to calm him? Yes, I did. It took several hours, but he was laughing by the time I left. Oh, I’m no hero, but I generally know which buttons to push. The staff had yet to learn.

Within seventy-two hours he’d gotten out of the facility, even as his ankle bracelet screeched while he walked through the main door. A maintenance man found him behind the building near an area surrounded by woods.

By the third, maybe fourth, week he started to acclimate a tiny bit.

The food, though nutritious, does not appeal to my picky husband. And showering with a female aide hovering nearby is not gonna happen. Without me to nag him about changing his clothes, he doesn’t. Instead of putting his things in the laundry, he hides them in the waste baskets and they’re gone forever. His slippers, leather scuffs, have vanished several times. Once I found the left one in a wheelchair parked outside another resident’s door. A few days ago I found the right one under a table in the shower room. But the left one had disappeared again. Peter isn’t necessarily to blame. Residents in memory care units are notorious for “stealing” from other residents.

Houdini could be his middle name.

Peter advises the cat on how to escape.

No, I really can’t blame him for any of this. No one can know what it’s like to be so confused and disoriented all the time. During his first 12 days there, he’d had relative freedom. But he was quickly moved to the “lock-down” wing after he busted out a second time. He left for an outing with Mark in the morning, but returned to a different room that afternoon. He didn’t even realize he’d been moved. And a few weeks later when we were finally able to move our furniture in to replace the borrowed stuff, he never noticed the change.

So, he’s safe under lock and key…touchpad and code.

Except he isn’t. My husband is an escape artist. He snuck out in my care, and when he wants to get out, he continues to walk out right past the nurses. For years Peter took Nobby to visit the residents where he himself now lives. He knew the code to get into the locked areas and how to get out. Served him well when he was the one on the inside. Frankly, I laughed when I heard that he remembered the code. He can’t remember names or places or much of anything at all, but numbers? His engineer’s brain still computes with reasonable ease. Then, too, he can read. There’s a sign on each locked door that says: Press for 15 seconds and door will open—fire code requirement.

It’s all about control.

From the first days he looked for ways to maintain control. Leslie and I set up his first room and made it as homey as we could. It was a large attractive room with a pleasant outlook. He very quickly rearranged things to suit himself—he hid the family photos, stacked books and puzzles in a corner, and put his tooth and hairbrushes in the little refrigerator that was left behind by the previous occupant.

Less than two weeks after he was moved to the more secure area, he started conjuring more creative ways to dominate his surroundings. He folds his clothes and conceals them in pillow cases, then secures them with his belts or wrapped in his shirts. Lately he’s wrapped everything, gift-like, in towels or sheets. He stashes handkerchiefs in the travel toothbrush holder he requested, not for his toothbrush, but to conceal whatever he could stuff into that little green cylinder. He hid family photos underneath a framed picture of his dad.

In more recent weeks he started taking the screens out of his windows. Almost every evening he disconnects his television, but two days ago he hid it. From himself or from me? I found it and hooked it up again, even though I always say I won’t.

Days 94-98 have been more troublesome. No matter howfrustrated I get, I know Peter is a hundred times more frustrated—he isn’t to blame for his shenanigans. I tell myself that while I bang my head against a brick wall.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

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. 

 

 

Laughs every day are harder to find.

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

Maybe it’s the shorter days, the longer nights, the unseasonable cold eight weeks ago, the unseasonable heat this month, or maybe the light at the end of the tunnel burned out, but I’ve really had to search for laughs to drag me, us, along recently.

One evening.

Leslie, Martin, Peter and I had a Friday night dinner and movie date, but there was a line out the door of the restaurant we’d chosen. We had little time to spare, so we ended up at the one place I’d said no to: Red Robin. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but Peter had been there twice that week.

We’d no sooner ordered than another waitress came by and skidded to a stop beside our table. “You didn’t come say hello to me,” she said, grinning at Peter. “What’s up with that?”

Peter laughed. “I didn’t know I was coming here.”

“I’ll let you off,” she said, “I wasn’t supposed to be here tonight, but someone called in.” She looked at the rest of us. “He makes us laugh ordering ‘cish and fips’ when he comes for lunch.” Peter grinned. They make such a fuss over him at Red Robin. The bonhomie reminds him of an English pub.

Later that evening.

We were about one hour, thirty minutes into a one hour thirty-seven minute mildly entertaining movie. Peter fidgeted and twisted in his seat. Bored, I wondered? Hm, no. “Do you need the loo?” I whispered.

He was annoyed that I asked. But suddenly he got up, felt his way along the row, down the few steps, and he was gone. “He won’t know how to get back,” Leslie said, as if I didn’t know. I groped my way out and followed.

In the hallway Peter fumbled at a door marked with the international symbol for family restroom. “Can I go in here?” he asked. I nodded. He dashed inside.

Even though the movie was a bit of a ho-hummer, I wanted to see the ending. I paced outside the theater door, then noticed the sign above said “Blade Runner.” I looked around. None of the doors’ signs said “Home Again.” Ack! Was I lost? By the time Peter emerged, I’d realized our film only ran at 7:30. “Blade Runner” would be shown at 10:00 in the same theater.

Back inside, just before the closing credits, I told Leslie I’d gotten confused. Of course she laughed as she does, but I didn’t try to explain to Peter. He would’ve cracked up knowing I’d been lost…momentarily.

The next morning.

Peter was in the kitchen clattering around. I pictured dishes suffering new chips and silverware headed for the waste bin instead of the dishwasher. I went to check. Ah-h!

“Peter, those haven’t washed yet,” I yelped when I realized he’d taken dirty plates, glasses and silverware from the dishwasher and put them into cupboards and drawers. He growled and stomped away. I reclaimed the dirty unwashed.

That evening I took a couple salad bowls off the shelf. Both were encrusted with bits of tomato and lettuce. Ready made salad, right out of the cupboard! What a concept.

Peter had the last laugh, because his mistake was my fault. I hadn’t switched the color-coded sign I stick on the dishwasher from  yellow/clean  to pink/dirty. How was he supposed to know the things he’d removed were dirty?

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

‘What do I want?’

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Childlike, Favorites, Remember

Peter and I spent the morning of June 6 at the Commemoration of the Normandy Invasion at the National D-Day Memorial in Bedford, Virginia. We’ve visited many times in the sixteen years since it opened. We go because we remember D-Day. Well, I do. Peter doesn’t remember much anymore, but I’d hoped the grandeur of the place would spark a memory.

A soft breeze wafted around us as we walked up the alleé and through the immense granite Overlord Arch. Above us, Allied flags flapped in the wind. As we gazed out at the awe-inspiring depiction of a Normandy beach, a soldier fighting to gain the cliff, another sprawled in the sea, Peter said, “We’ve never been here before, have we?”

* * *

After the ceremony we went to Roanoke for lunch. When I drove into Montano’s parking lot, his eyes lit up. “I know where I am now,” he said. We were seated quickly at one of Theresa’s tables. After so many Montano’s lunches, she knows us.

She patted Peter on the shoulder. “You remember, we don’t have Guinness on tap anymore,” she said, apologizing.

He shook his head, and finally settled on another choice. When she returned with his beer, she said, “Ready to order? Too many decisions, I know.”

He looked at me. “What do I want?”

“Fish and chips.”

“Yes, that’s what I want.”

When Theresa brought our food, he asked me about the contents of the three little cups on his plate.

“Tartar sauce. Horseradish sauce. Malt vinegar,” I said, pointing to each. “You use malt vinegar. It goes on the fish and chips.”

He dipped his spoon into the tartar sauce. “Oh, that’s good,” he said. Once upon a time, he wouldn’t even have tasted tartar sauce. “Too sweet,” he would’ve said. He dipped his spoon in again. “I could eat it all.”

He wrinkled his nose at the horseradish sauce, but then, he picked up the container of vinegar, put it to his lips…and…

“NO-O! Don’t drink the vinegar!” I yelped. Too late.

He shuddered. His eyes watered. “Bl-l-l-ech! Wasn’t supposed to drink it, was I?”  He laughed and choked at the same time.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the look on his face. “You’re supposed to sprinkle it on the fish and chips.”

He did “sprinkle” the remaining vinegar, but then, to add to my shock, he plastered the fish with tartar sauce. By that point, I guess I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d licked the container clean.

We’re reflected in the granite Overlord Arch in Bedford.

Header: Monument at front of National D-Day Memorial, Bedford, Virginia

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

 

Sweet talk.

Posted on by under Be mine, Caregiver, Chocolate, Dementia, Favorites

Valentine’s Day crept on me, but I decided not to rush out to buy a card for my husband. Instead we’d go to our favorite spot for coffee. Oh, yes, I did cut a big heart out of newspaper and put it in his chair this morning and, yes, I did leave a message on his little white board. He didn’t notice either of them.

When I suggested we go to Our Daily Bread, his eyes lit up. We walked so I could justify one of their beautifully decorated heart-shaped sugar cookies. The place was bustling, as always, and even at 9:30 we were too late to get Valentine cookies. Peter eyed a strawberry-studded chocolate gateau, but in the end, we settled on our favorite apple turnovers.

After repeating his usual questions several times — “any news from upstate? ” and “how’s the big guy?” — he wanted to know what he could say that wasn’t the same old thing.

“How about ‘Happy Valentine’s Day?'” I said.

“When is it?”

“Today.”

“I didn’t know,” he said. He patted my hand and shook his head.

“Oh well, this is better than a card anyway. Two apple turnovers and two coffees for only eight dollars and forty-six cents.”

“Cheaper than a card,” he said.

“You’re a cheap date,” I told him.

images-1

 

Header photo: My mom’s heart-shaped dish always holds “sweethearts” in February.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.