Another "First"

     Esperanza, Hope and David will be here for supper tonight.  So I am actually fixing an evening meal for the first time since Bob died.  I just finished putting together a crock-pot lasagna. We'll have that and a salad.  And, hopefully, leftovers for a meal another evening.  It seems strange to think of this as some sort of milestone, but fixing an evening meal isn't much fun any more.  I have gravitated toward frozen dinners more often than not, and when I don't have those on hand, then a quick sandwich or maybe scrambled eggs have been the go-to entree.  And, of course, there's always popcorn!

Tender Loving Care

     A couple of months ago, before Bob died, on any given day I accomplished a great deal.  Much of what I checked off my figurative "to do" list were things I did for Bob, but there were many other things, too--making phone calls, doing laundry, writing notes, paying bills, running errands-- mostly mundane but necessary tasks.  I don't know that I was exactly a "ball of energy," but I certainly seemed to have a lot more then, and motivation as well, than I do now.  Then I was going pretty much nonstop "from sun-up to sun-down," as the saying goes.  Now, by about 1:00 or 2:00 in the afternoon, it is a huge effort to imagine doing much of anything for the rest of the day.  Sometimes I manage to push through this lethargy until time for dinner; but there are times when I just surrender.

     This afternoon, I pushed myself a bit and sorted through an accumulation of papers.  In the stack, I found materials from hospice, including a booklet entitled Journey's End.  On the last two pages, the author comments on "Bereavement."  There I came upon these compassionate and supportive words:

"You have probably pushed yourself to be strong for your loved one, giving little attention to your own needs.  Now is the time to treat yourself tenderly.  You have sustained a deep wound that will need loving support to heal."  

Unbroken Connection

     The medical center where Bob died is on a main street in Taos; I drive by it numerous times a week.  The window of "his" room overlooks the street, as does the patio where we sometimes sat when the grand kids came to visit.  Some days as I drive by, I am only vaguely aware of the countless memories we made there in two-and-a-half weeks.  Last night as I passed, the memories washed over me in waves, vivid and strong.  I could almost feel Bob's presence with me--as real as if he were sitting, as usual, in the passenger seat beside me.  The sensation didn't last long--about as long as it took to pass the building.  That same sense comes over me in the morning when I sit down with my coffee, facing "Bob's chair" where he always sat with me as we began our day.  I know he isn't sitting in that chair, but I feel his presence as intensely as if he were.  I feel it, too, when I sit at "Bob's place" at our dining table, or when I fluff up "Bob's pillow" as I make the bed. The feeling comes again each time I put on, or glance down at, the bracelet made of "Bob's wedding ring."

 

There is unexpected, welcome comfort in these connections--reminders that the bond we shared and the life we lived together were real, and continue unbroken--although in a new and unfamiliar guise.  

A Changing Sense of Self

     This past Sunday, returning to New Mexico from very rich and supportive time with family in Illinois, I was aware that I was not thinking of myself as "coming home" but rather as "coming back."  It doesn't quite feel like home without Bob.  Then tonight, for the second time after his death, I attended the monthly Alzheimer's caregiver's support group; this time, I felt out-of-place--even though several in the group have urged me to come, and assured me I am a "permanent member." Tonight, there were three new members who talked at length of the way the disease is affecting their mothers, and thus, their own lives.  It was very difficult to listen to their stories and I felt myself distancing emotionally from them.  On the way home, I realized that that is consistent with other responses I've made since Bob died.  I had belonged to a caregiver's support group on Facebook, and was getting posts from two or three other Alzheimer's-related Facebook groups, but after he died, I couldn't bear even seeing the posts much less reading them.  And so, I discontinued those connections almost immediately. Tonight I think it's time for me to move on from the local support group, too--although, not from the members with whom I've grown close.  We can certainly find ways to stay in touch. But I am not feeling up to beginning the Alzheimer's journey anew, and I don't want to be a "permanent member" of the group, even though I know the invitation is offered as loving support.  It feels like time for me to move on, and I'm inclined to trying a grief support group I've heard good things about. That feels more apropos for my heart and journey now.