That danged old cycle

Something about holding a sleeping child in the midst of loss comforts beyond belief.

I know that I must be letting go of my father at the same time that I am dealing with the loss of my husband, putting him in a long term care facility which he won't leave. The finality of that personal decision seems not much different from realizing that an 89 year old dad who says "Let me go" has probably lived as much of life as he wants.

So I rock my grandchild (his great grandchild) and I smell her breath and I keep "pink bunny" near her chest and I know the cycle of life is real and wouldn't be so sweet if it lasted forever but then cycles are supposed to last forever. Round and round I feel
myself spinning. I guess no one ever said each of us gets to ride that cycle.

Whitman said, "Look for me under your feet. I am the grass."

Sometimes I think I'm chafe, but today Lily, my granddaughter, held her first tiny branch of forsythia, and I am reminded that spring does finally come around and all the cliches are true.

Oh my!!!

TODAY:
Toddler tunes downstairs.
Solid gold oldies upstairs.

CHECK:
Is the toilet lid closed so Lily won't fall in and drown?
Is the toilet lid open so Bob can find it and use it?

GETTING Bobba dressed:
"Here are your socks, Bob. Bob! Not the shoes. Take this sock."
I put the sock into his hand. He gets it on.)
Lily hands me his other sock and says, "Bobba.

A minute ago, I run back to the bedroom to check on both of them: Bob is bopping to "Willy the Wooly Mammoth" since I've switched to toddler tunes upstairs.
Lily is eating one of my credit cards as she's gotten into my purse and is thinking of shopping.

Let the good times roll!

P.S. Lily is my 14 month old granddaughter:)

Lost, lost, lost

This may be a theme for a bit.
Overall Bob still sleeps well at night. He can even get up and walk down the hall to the toilet. However, returning to bed has become enough of an ordeal that I am fully awakened nightly.
He generally makes it back to the bedroom, but he has a tendency to make a right turn which sends him to my side of the bed (one time he plopped down on my sleeping form!!! that's one reason why I make sure I wake up) but more often he can sit on (his side of) the bed and then begins a fumbling mess until he manages to get under the covers without shoes. Almost always he needs my assistance.
A couple of nights ago I was aware that he'd not returned to the bed in an expected amount of time (a week or so ago I had found him down in the kitchen wandering about; this time I looked into the bathroom, didn't see him, went in search, no luck. I returned to the bathroom to look again and glanced into the connected tub room: he was standing in the tub.
Unthinking I asked, "What are you doing in there?"
"Where? Where am I?"

Minefields

So, I've been away ... mentally. Otherwise, my friends, life has continued.
Of course, Bob is deteriorating and much has changed and nothing has changed over the past four months, but I will try to catch up.

For now, here's how life has been:

Up one morning in early November in pretty good spirits.

We watched tv and drank our coffee altho’ I had to turn the news off quickly when they interviewed the woman whose husband was shot by Mexican pirates while jet sking on the Texas Mexico border; why is she on all the news shows??? Bob is already bothered by the cartels and wants me to agree that we will never travel to Mexico.

Done.

Time to go upstairs to shower and shave.

“I’m tired of shaving.”

OK. You want to skip today?

ForEVER.

Fine. Should I run the shower for you?

“I don’t need to.”

"I’ve turned the music on. Why not sit down and listen to it?"

No reply.

"I’m going to go take my shower."

“Good for you!”

I get the water ready and my robe, then look for him. He’s not in the bedroom with the music; he’s sitting in the great room and will not talk.

I have to shower; I still go to work if only part time. When I come out, he’s not on the couch. He doesn’t reply to my calls. Finally I find him sitting in the kitchen at the table.

In a really cheery voice, I say, “Oh, would you like to have your breakfast now?”

Nothing.

I go over and take his hands. I ask him to come on upstairs with me where the music is. He gets up but pulls away from me as I’ve been gently guiding him by his elbow.

He is lost. I can't stay with him emotionally at times like this or I will break.

We get upstairs, him: quiet and glum, me: fake merry sunshine.

Still no shower; let’s just change into clean clothes.

“I had perfectly good clothes and now they’re worth … worth … nothing!”

"These are good clothes but you wore them all day yesterday and last night."

"See. You can tell I like them. They're perfectly good."

I cave. Who really cares? They're perfectly good.

Today he said

"I used to love you, but not any more. You think you own me and can tell me what to do."
He almost bumped into the sliding glass doors as he looked for a way to leave our great room and "escape" from me.
That about says it all.

I hate Saturdays!

I hate Saturdays. They linger forever. I have things to do around the house, but Bob can do nothing so he drifts around following me, looking mopey, making me feel guilty for not sitting down and entertaining him.
Today I accepted that he "just wants to be with [me]" so I didn't let his shadowing bother me.

When I had some bills to pay and pants to shorten, I suggested we sit on the bed and he could listen to music while I worked. OK.

I came back with my sewing box and sat down.
He exploded, "Please (at least that) don't bounce around. I told you it hurts my eyes."
"I'm sorry. I had no idea. It's hurts your eyes?"
"I told you yesterday."
A bit more of that with him making little sense but me working to calm him and I suggested that I go back downstairs so I wouldn't cause his eyes pain.
"Sure. You'll be glad to get away from me."
"Bob, I'm trying to help you be comfortable."
"Can you talk any louder so all the people in this building..." he gestured broadly toward the bedroom ceiling and the fan "... can enjoy it. I'm sure they think we're idiots!"

It wouldn't surprise me if "they" do think that. I know we are.

What is anything really?

Life has been getting trickier each day lately. In addition to our regular feeding of the hungry, Bob's eyes continue to bother him (they're scratchy and dry) and he becomes unpleasant about them. He may be reaching the end of his ability to put on a happy face.

This morning a refusal to shave or shower came as a result of his being bothered when the eye drops ran down his cheek. Next he decided that he needed to see his cardiologist ... immediately. As I tried to find out why he felt this way, he told me that the nurse had told him to because once "you've had one heart attack it's likely you'll have another." He became angry when I mentioned that he hadn't had a heart attack.

Anyway I reassured him that he already had an appointment scheduled in February and rather than help him understand what February means, I turned on one of his favorite CDs and left the room; a bit later he was fine and willing to shave.

This disease demands that I keep the focus on myself. It's OK for me to become irritated with myself for lack of patience; it's OK for me to rant and rave internally about his little meannesses and his frustrating inability to understand. Those are ways I'll stay sane while I spend my time caring for him.

But, if I think of what's happening to him, I break up inside. How frightening not to know what Saturday is or to understand what the East Coast means or to remember his brother in law. I will be OK when this is over; I will be able to rest and I can think of him at peace and no longer struggling.

For him it will just be over.