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.

"Hard" is a Relative Term

     So often in the last few months of Bob's life someone commented to me about how hard things must be, and I guess they were.  But they are much harder now.  What made it easier then was that he was here with me; we were sharing each other's struggles and sadness about the effects of Alzheimer's disease on both of us.  And that made a huge difference, still sharing everything.  We also still spent our life together.  Still enjoyed sunsets and moon rises over the mountains, and the walks we took in the park or woods.  We still held hands, still shared our morning coffee, still hugged and kissed every morning and every night.  We could still enjoy time with Esperanza and our grand kids, still laugh together at their antics, and delight in their newfound abilities.  We were still a couple and felt each other's loving presence in so many unspoken ways.  Now, in the absence of sharing, this season is so much harder than all the hard days and nights of his illness.

"First Hike"

     There have already been many "firsts" without Bob's presence, and today was another one.  It was my first time to hike again the trail that became one of our favorites because it was close to town yet on a mountainside.  The last time we hiked that trail, over a year ago, Bob fell twice.  After that, I was afraid to take him on any mountain hikes unless they were on wide (two-track) paths with no chance of falling over the edge.  This morning, Esperanza invited me to join her on it.  It felt good to be there again and brought back many happy memories of hiking it with Bob, and also with her and the grand kids along a couple of times.  It also felt good to exert myself so much again.  It's been a long time since I've been able to challenge myself as much; I had scaled back to whatever worked for Bob.

Looking Back after Two Weeks

     Today is July 12, 2017. Two weeks ago yesterday, I lost my best friend, beloved companion and partner, my husband, my Bob. The last two weeks of his life (June 12-27, 2017) he spent at Taos Retirement Village Medical Center.  He walked in there with me, intending to stay 5 days to give me a respite.  But Alzheimer's disease had other plans and began intensifying its grip, disabling him more each day.  To save money, I briefly considered taking him to a VA-contracted facility in Albuquerque, but am so grateful I decided against that.  I wanted to keep him here, as close to home, to Esperanza and the kids, and to our friends as possible.  I am so grateful I made that decision.
     During those last weeks, he was able to enjoy visits from friends—Donna and Steve, Janice, Rose (who spent the bulk of two different days with him), Kathleen and Genny.  Because he was here, he also had visits with Esperanza and the kids who colored pictures for him and gave him hugs and kisses and told him they loved him.  And because he was in the nursing center, I was able to focus again on being his wife and best friend.  We were able to share quiet evening walks, to attend an opera performance on the Village grounds, to listen to music, and even to dance one more time when a local folk music group performed at the Center.  One evening I played the piano and sang for him. While he was still eating, we shared meals at a “table for two.”  As he drifted off to sleep at night, I could sit and hold his hand, sometimes I would also sing to him. More than once, we had a whole day of just being together, enjoying each other's company while listening to our favorite CD's.  In a very real way, the Nursing Center became “our home” for those two weeks.  We were surrounded by love and care, and we were able just to “be” together.  We were “at home” with each other to the end.