Better than a dozen roses.

The weekend was perfect for so many reasons. First, Leslie orchestrated a tea party Saturday on the porch at the end of the corridor where Peter lives. Grandson Miah was the surprise guest. What a treat all ’round.

Then, on Sunday, I organized a walk in a favorite park for Peter, Nobby and me. My husband actually remembered having been there, “Once,” he said. I told him we’d been there many times over the years.  “Many times?!” he asked with raised eyebrow. He shook his head. Nobby remembered too, romping as if he were still a puppy instead of an old fellow of ten.

As we meandered back to the car, Peter lagged behind. I kept glancing over my shoulder to make sure he was following — he has a history of getting lost or hiding to scare me. When he caught up, he held up a bouquet of maple leaves. “Would you like to have these?” he asked. His eyes twinkled and he had sweetest smile.

Would I ever!” Thank you,” I said and took his hand, something he usually hates. He actually leaned in to kiss me but knocked both of our caps askew. A laugh, a kiss and a bouquet on a beautiful orange and red afternoon. Better than a dozen roses any day.

I took the scenic route back. Peter laughed when I said I thought we were lost. “You never get lost,” he said, and indeed I don’t and I wasn’t lost then. Then I told him I was more worried about being low on gas. That really made him laugh because he remembered how much I hate to pump gas.

When I opened the door to his room he looked shocked. The space was unusually tidy and the bright potted mum in the window glowed in the sunshine. “Is this where I live now?” he asked. I nodded. “Good!” he said. He took his jacket off, tossed it on his bed, and gave me a hug.

I tuned his tv to a soccer match, parked him in his chair, and headed home to put my fanciful bouquet in water and reflect on the glorious autumn weekend.

Outside looking in, Nobby seems to approve my maple syrup “vase” and fetching bouquet.

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Be gentle with yourself, you’re doing the best you can.

Notices for books by, for and about caregivers show up in my email every day. I follow blogs by women  who are caregivers, and by experts who advise them…advise us. The common thread is, be kind to yourself and remember, you’re doing the best you can at a very hard job.

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Monday, Leslie collected Peter at ten for Christmas shopping and lunch. She volunteered for the job. She, and Carolynn too, always lift his spirits and make him laugh with their teasing. I’m sure he enjoyed the day, even though he didn’t remember where they’d been.

After they’d gone, I spent a long hour on the phone straightening out a niggling problem, the sort of thing I despise doing. After that, I thought, I should go to the grocery. But, no, dammit, I would get coffee at Our Daily Bread, a favorite haunt. I’m so glad I did. While I dawdled over coffee and cranberry/orange scone, I read two excellent story drafts by writer friends. Un-in-ter-rupt-ed. I felt a bit guilty that I enjoyed being there without Peter, but I confess, I savored it.

As I was about to leave, a young woman waved from across the room. Stephanie, a gardener friend, worked her way to my table and gave me a hug. “So nice to see you out like this,” she said. “I know how hard things must be, but obviously, you have ‘time off’ today.” She’d just been to Florida visiting her father who has Alzheimer’s too. “I understand what you’re going through,” she added.

Stephanie, with her million-dollar smile and twinkling eyes, helped make my day.

After that, I did get a few things at Kroger’s. While in the card aisle, looking for an anniversary card for my husband, a wheelchair-bound, sweet elderly lady asked me to help her find a Christmas card for a dear friend. I picked out several, but cost was an issue. She really liked an eight dollar one, but wanted something in the five dollar range. I found one with a message she loved. She thanked me over and over.

I hope I helped make her day.

Leslie stayed for a cup of tea after she brought Peter home even though I knew she had lots to do at her house.

She made my day all over again.

This morning, both daughters texted, Today is the shortest day of the year. Won’t be long until time to cut the grass, as my dad always said on the Winter Solstice.

Their reminders made me chuckle and made this day.

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2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest, second place, blog category.

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Say a lot in few words.

When our friends Jerry and Shelia visited, Shelia took me aside to  ask, “Does Pete worry about anything?”

“No,” I said.

She smiled. “He doesn’t have to, you take care of everything. He has no worries.”

I nodded and she gave me a hug. There was nothing more to say, and for effervescent, talkative Shelia, that in itself was saying a lot.

 

 2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest, second place, blog category.

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‘In November, people are good to each other…’

I’ve always liked November’s skill at blowing the warm months away with icy jabs, but I didn’t know it was special for anyScreen Shot 2015-11-06 at 4.21.38 PM reason other than Veteran’s Day, our granddaughter’s birthday and Thanksgiving. A surprise delivery of flowers from “The Soul Sisters” a couple days ago changed that. The card was inscribed “Happy National Caregivers’ Month, for the woman who defines caring.”

Me?

I assumed sisters meant Carolynn and Leslie, so right away, I took a selfie and sent them a thank you. Les replied she wished she could take credit, but she could not. Later, Carolynn wrote, “They’re from Robin and me, Mom, we’re soul sisters. Leslie and I are are blood sisters.”  She said she’d never heard of National Family Caregivers Month either, but Robin had.

Leave it to Robin. Carolynn’s best friend is probably the caring-est person I’ve ever known. She’s a go-getter caregiver, a whirlwind, a hurricane.

Peter answered the door when the flowers were delivered. I figured someone was selling something so I was shocked to see a pleasant young man holding a bright arrangement of autumn flowers. “Are you Judith?” he asked.

“Yes-s…”

“These are for you. Have a wonderful caregiver’s month.” I managed to thank him before he bounded off.

Peter’s chin was glued to my shoulder when I opened the card. “Who are they from?” he asked. When I said “Carolynn and Leslie” he wondered why they’d sent flowers? “Is it Clarke with an ‘e’?” he asked. “Maybe there’s another Judith Clarke on this street. Are you sure they’re for you?” he pestered.

I didn’t want to get into an explanation about caregivers, which he wouldn’t understand anyway, so I said, “Even if they’re not for me, I’m gonna’ keep ’em.”

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I kept them.

 

Title: line from In November, a book by childrens’ author Cynthia Rylant.
Leaf graphic: Alzheimer’s Prevention Registry

 

Ten more years.

We set off for Charleston, West Virginia just before 9:00 a.m. Our destination was the US Customs and Immigration Office (USCIS). My English husband had to be photographed and fingerprinted so he’d be a legal permanent resident for another ten years.

Our little corner of Virginia is tucked into an indent in West Virginia’s border. The drive is a beautiful one that hugs the New River as it flows north, continuing to carve away at the Allegheny Mountains as it has done for millennia.

As happens so often these days, a thought lodged in Peter’s mind. Over and over, like a needle stuck on one of his 78 rpm records, he said, “I can’t imagine how they moved all these rocks and trees to make this road, can you?” I always try to answer his questions until I realize he’s in repeat — in my mind it’s “rePete” — mode. After about the fifth rePete I murmer the noncommittal and very useful British “mmm.”

Even with a stop for coffee, we arrived in Charleston two hours early. “Arriving at your destination. Turn left. Turn left here!” the GPS nagged frantically.  Silly thing failed acknowledge the median down the middle of the street. I had to drive another two blocks to make a U-turn in order to truly arrive.

The name on the building wasn’t the same as the information USCIS had furnished, so I parked and went inside to make sure we were in the right place. We wanted to have lunch before Peter’s two o’clock appointment.

Not only was it the right place, but the young man in charge offered to process Peter right then. He began to sign in and, as I often do, I tried to help. I was told politely that Peter was to do it himself. I whispered to the fellow that my husband has dementia and would need some prompting. He whispered back that he understood. “We’ll take care of him,” he said.

He handed Peter additional papers and a pencil. It was the very same form I’d completed on-line several weeks earlier to expedite the process! Peter worried about using a pencil instead of a pen, but I assured him that’s what they wanted.

“Hm, do you think his eyes are hazel,” the young man asked when Peter completed the paperwork. “I think they’re blue,” he said as he studied my husband’s eyes. Difficult for Peter to hold eye contact for so long, but he managed.

“Well, he’s always said ‘hazel.’ But he did start to write ‘gray’ for eyes and ‘hazel’ for hair color,” I said.

He laughed. “OK, hazel they are.”

Peter was processed quickly — no messy ink these days, nor film either — and we were on our way to lunch within minutes. At his scheduled appointment hour, we were almost halfway home.

The drive was punctuated with another question that had snagged in his brain. “How long before I have to do this again?”

“Ten years. They probably won’t even care by then,” I said. “And I certainly wouldn’t drive you to Charleston anyway!”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Can’t drive a wheelchair on the interstate,” I said, and we laughed.

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National Park Service photo.

 

Header photo: New River, Virginia, Eric T.Gunther, Creative Commons Attribution.

Random kindnesses. Observed. Received.

A young man of twenty-five or so stood in front of me in the quick check-out lane at the grocery. In his right hand he held a plastic bag of groceries, in his left, red roses. When it was his turn he lay the roses carefully on the conveyor. “These are for you,” he said to the checker.

“What about the things in your hand?” she asked.

“No, I already paid for these earlier. The flowers are for you,” he explained. “You said you were having a bad day…”

She was flustered, but picked the flowers up and smelled them. “Really? For me?” She rang them up, he gave her cash and left quickly. She looked at me astounded. “It wasn’t that bad a day,” she said, “but now it’s a lot better.”

Random act of kindness, observed.

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Yesterday, following a week of bitter cold and snow, I was out early shoveling walks and driveway. A young man and his mother walked carefully towards me. He was holding her arm. We exchanged “Good mornings” and observations about the cold, then they got into the big gray pick-up truck that had been parked in front of our house, off and on, all week.

I kept shoveling.

Walks fiinished, I was working my way back along the drive when I noticed the truck had returned to the space carved amidst the plowed-up snow. “Hello again,” the man called out. “I thought I should introduce myself,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind me parking there, but I can’t get in and out of my driveway right now. It’s so steep and icy.”

No problem, I told him. Then he asked if he could finish shoveling our drive for me, and assured me it would be a pleasure to help.

I was gobsmacked. “Thanks,” I said, “but I actually like to shovel snow.” I explained we’d moved here from upstate New York and were used to deep snows. “Besides,” I said, “my husband will be out soon to finish this off.”

“You sure?” he asked. I nodded, he wished me a good day, and walked off.

Random act of kindness, received.

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When I told Peter about the incident, he wondered if I’d told the fellow that I like toDSC00781 shovel snow. “Yes, and I told him that if you didn’t get outside and do your part, I’d bury you in a snow drift and leave you until spring.” I handed him his jacket and shoved him towards the door.

I knew he’d laugh, and he did.