her photo caught my eye
an old black and white
that served to mystify
her simplicity.
and all around the wall
amongst strange faces
the elders will recall
hers was familiar.
a youthful air, demure
midst her meager class
less than twelve be sure
small town graduates
and like phrases that rhyme
or those that strain to
her smile tried touching mine
across many years
a sudden thought occurred
at once hopeful dark
as though a ghost had stirred
that she may still live
alone and dressed in lace
a small frail lady
friendly and soft of face
someplace here in town
perhaps the small white cape
on outer main street
clapboards weathered scraped
greying through the seasons
or the dark shuttered place
by the verrill farm
that lilacs have embraced
with purple perfume
and we could meet for tea
to talk of those times
before she knew of me
and my autumn heart
Category Archives: Writing
GRACE (c. 1925)
Introduction
Act I: Daily Life
[edit]
The Stage Manager introduces the audience to the small town of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, its geography and main buildings and institutions, as well as the people living there, as morning breaks on May 7, 1901. Joe Crowell delivers the paper to Doc Gibbs, Howie Newsome delivers the milk, and the Webb and Gibbs households send their children (Emily and Wally Webb, George and Rebecca Gibbs) off to school on this beautifully simple morning.
So begins Our Town, by Thornton Wilder published in the early 1930’s.
Underneath a glowing full moon, Act I ends with George and Emily gazing out of their respective bedroom windows, enjoying the smell of heliotrope in the “wonderful (or terrible) moonlight,” with the self-discovery that they like each other, very much and the realization that they are both straining to grow up in their own way. Later as Emily and George are now teenagers; Emily reflects on life and her small town :
“Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it every, every minute?
CHRISTMAS 2004~ a year of magical thinking
The last post was last summer. Janis died on March 15th at 1:15 pm These last ten months have been a fake-it-or-make-it time—and still are.
Grief is an amazing, cogent, and challenging state to be in. But, I’m aware that everybody has experienced it in life and as strange as it is, it is that insight that has helped keep me going. It has helped me but it hasn’t cured it. I’ve come to understand another truth that others have discovered: it is now the way the rest of my life will function, with this loss always in the background. Everything, everything, is a reminder. I have connected with friends from my hometown first grade class, some who have breakfast with me once a month for the past 10 years, and reunited friends some who I had not seen for almost 50 years. I’ve done some traveling. Trips to Virginia to visit my daughter and husband. I Spent time in Old Quebec City last summer where Janis and I spent summer vacations for many years, thanks to our our friends, Claire and Suzanne. (This was a major grief breakthrough for me.) I attended with my daughter Stacia and my grandson, Rob. Claire and Suzanne were young counselors at Camp Pesky with me from 1974 – 1984.
I could easily slip into a bah-humbug slump this Christmas. Get drunk. Sit in front of numbing videos on streaming television and go to bed whenever I damn well choose. And get up at noon. But NO! I have magic that keeps snapping me out of it. Grandchildren. Rob, Madeline, Brin, Cam (I’ve learned from my youngest, Cam. 4y.o. granddaughter how to dance to Taylor Swift’s songs.) It’s hysterical, and a hell of a workout. She keeps stopping me when I don’t do it right shows me how and we resume, my antics seem to bother her, she laughs.
One of the things that separates us from amoebas (as far as we know), is emotions. I doubt that they have a frontal cortex-amoebas. But we can understand and respect that being human comes with the acceptance that we are among other creatures that have emotional lives and we should be damn well appreciative of this. I know this raises all kinds of discussions (do snakes have emotions? do houseflies? And why is it so difficult to catch/swat a stupid fly?) do dragons….
But, I digress.
Today is a cold but sunny day. I’m thankful there is no wind. Living on the coast of Maine is a treasure that I’m grateful for everyday. Except for winter. It’s a windy kind of cold coming off the ocean. Janis and I moved to Harpswell after my retirement in 2004. I took a position at Bowdoin College, no, not a professor, I was Supervisor of Security at the College Museum of Art for almost a decade. It was a significant education in the arts. Janis encouraged me to apply. It was another decade in a very different profession. Janis loved being on the coast. She loved lobster. When we were teenagers dating, I took her with me and my parents to Orrs Island, and she had her first taste of seafood. Lobster. clams, corn on the cob. A feast we repeated for a few summers. My aunt and uncle had a summer property on the Island. This turned out to be just a few miles from where we later retired to in Harpswell.
We did not notice she was in decline. In hindsight I see a lot of evidence that we missed. That I missed. I have deep regret for that. I do find some solace in knowing that we were together for over 60+ years; in later years with frequent visits, for hours, after she was placed in care, and I held her hand the day she died speaking into her ear? “I love you.”
Filed under Alzheimer's, Uncategorized, Writing
HOW TO FIX THIS MESS
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Filed under Alzheimer's, child abuse, mental health, Uncategorized, Writing
the shortest summer, the longest winter
Note:
Folks who know us and see me often ask how Janis is doing. I don't have much to report because she is so advanced in this disease she is not presenting much to speak of. But since there are people outside of our immediate friends and family that don't hear personally from me, I'm offering this update of sorts.
The summer prior to Janis's placement, today seems as recent as only a few weeks ago. Its been years. It was a short and emotional summer. Our last summer together. The diagnosis was a 'rapidly progressing dementia'.
(So much for a rapidly progressing dementia).
I wrote about this in the book ENTANGLED. But rereading it today left me bereft. I'm sitting at the computer and devoid of words to describe that day. The day I let her go. I let her down. The fact that I was recovering from a stroke that past Memorial Day weekend now seems like a weak excuse for that decision.
I spent the afternoon with her yesterday. I gave her a facial massage with lotion, brushed her teeth, brushed her hair. I brought in some new earbuds and spent half an hour getting them set up. Gahh! I have little patience for anything in this digital world. But I persisted and we shared the earbuds. I had one and she wore the other. She only has partial hearing in her left ear. We spent the rest of the visit holding hands and listening to music. No discernable response. She looked at me occasionally, but didn't seem to recognize me. At one point as she dozed I let go her hand to do something and she reached out to grab my hand. I hug her and kiss her face and tell her I love her. No way to know if she hears or understands me. Hours go by. I watch her up face. I watch her sleep. Squeeze her hand and smile at her. When I leave I speak in her left ear (Not sure if she still hears or not she's lost all language and rarely makes even utterances.)
Lewy body dementia (lbd) is confusing to family members and friends. One reason is that a trademark of Lewy body is 'fluctuations' It means that things change often in the presentation of the disease day-to-day, hour-to-hour, for instance, they may bounce back somewhat and visit an earlier stage only to falter and continue in their decline. Where as, Alzheimers is generally a persistent descent. Some other symptoms of lbd, are Parkinson-like symptoms (shuffling walk, shaking,lack of facial expression), hallucinations, delusions, cognitive decline. Memory problems may start later. Over the past several months, and years, Janis has often appeared to rebound and visit to an earlier stage of the disease (fluctuations) only to quickly falter and continue in her decline. Not this time. The descent has been steady and observable. I'm still waiting to see her come back, but this has been a tenacious decline all this past winter. So we shall see.
It's storming today here on the coast of Maine. A light snow, and drizzle of rain at times. A raw, cold day.
That last summer together was brief. Janis and I are now in the longest winter of this disease.
People who care about me worry that I'm not moving on with my life. To that I say, "This is my life. I'm doing it right now."
I cannot really move on. There is this matter that I must attend to. We're not done yet.
March 2, 2023 · 9:15 pm
THE SOUND OF LETTERS
The doors that look out in my backyard are what I believe they call French doors. Don’t know why. The point is they are full-size, double doors that are all glass. This morning it is a bright July day, the lawns are greenish but dry, and the trees are a deep, lush green. Summer in Maine. The sun warms the morning air, it will be another hot one, the slightest breeze barely makes it any cooler. Harpswell Bay is a brief walk from here down a sylvan road. There are some tangled woods, some birch, balsam, and other firs that cover my view. But this morning the gulls fly over and their calls make it clear that the Bay is nearby. My six-year-old granddaughter and her dog flash past my doors, so of course, I open the doors and greet them. I’m a sucker for a grandchild and her dog.
I confess here that I never got to 312.2 (Part Two), and in attempting to edit 312.2 (Part One) I accidentally deleted it. So…after an agonizing attempt to fix the problem I decided to just eliminate it and start with a blog draft that I had on hold. It’s more current. Now that you are completely confused I suggest you forget that whole confession. Not important. Not that any of this is important, but you know what I mean.
Brinley is my six-year-old granddaughter. She has privileged access to my apartment and I welcome her visits. One of the things she likes to do is read. She also likes to climb; do cartwheels; jump on my bed (I have to be alert to catch her now and then); dance; have pillow fights; do yoga, (cracks me up); tease for snacks, jump from the sofa to the chairs, and more recently play checkers, (she plays well, but squirms after a few minutes). She informed me that she wants to learn chess. I suggested we learn checkers first. She’s also impatient.
We have conversations. She likes to ask questions. Lately, she has shown an interest in the universe. Lots of questions about that! I suggest she play her piano, she asks about how high is the sky, I suggest she play her piano (her mom’s a pianist and teacher, and Brin is following in her mom’s footsteps) I cave in, and attempt to answer her questions. Next time she broaches the topic I’m going to teach her how to use Google. The problem is she isn’t ready to read at that level so I’m going to be reading it to her. Perhaps I’ll learn about the universe in the process. My point here is first, how much I love this child’s inquiring mind and also how she brightens my days.
Recently, during one of her reflective moments (moments: it doesn’t last longer than that), she was reflecting on her reading and asked me about a word. I don’t recall the word, but she was curious (oh yes, she’s curious) about how the letters make up a word. This was a topic as a writer, that I thought I could elaborate on and take the discussion as a lead-in to a talk about reading. She likes books and is eager to read. So…we, or I, started to sound out some words, she was genuinely engaged (this only encouraged me more on the topic). Somewhere around a discussion about the verb to be, (kidding) I looked over at her eyes (glassed over by now) and asked her if I was keeping her up. (Old grandpa is corny). She said, almost politely, “Nope. But I just wanted to know about the sounds that letters make.”
I love writing and I love reading. But It occurred to me that she knew exactly what she needed and it was a moment I will not forget. Speaking is about the sound that letters make. Reading is what letters sound like in our head. I need to keep that feeling I had at that moment. I’ve not been writing much lately.
Writing is the sound that letters make. A lesson. A simple truth from a six-year-old’s session with grandpa.
THE ROOM DOWNSTAIRS
Last night, August 19th was the first booksigning for ENTANGLED. My youngest daughter, Maya, assisted me and brought my 5 yo grand-daughter with her. This was an especially nostalgic event. It took place at my old high school, now the town municipal building. As I mixed and spoke to folks while signing books (busy trying to focus on the signing and get the names spelled right and not mix up their books) I had another of those moments that happen a lot lately: I kept feeling the presence of the young girl in the room downstairs. That’s the classroom where I met Janis more than half a century ago. The room downstairs 2 floors below the library we were in. The room where this petite young girl dropped into my orbit and turned my life into something especial.
Some of the folks who attended that night also went to school here with Janis and me. (Gene, Roger, and Fred.) For a couple of them it was their first time back inside their small high school since graduating in 1964. I tried avoiding the topic of the room downstairs with my old schoolmates, but it demanded my attention and I brought it up to the crowd. I consider that moment in my life to be one profound example of how life has it’s way with us, and changes us in unique ways. Here I was, nearly 75 years old, in the same building where I met Janis, and here were many of our friends and classmates. But, most importantly, here I was with our daughter and our 5 yo grandchild, Brinley who was enthralled (but not sure what all the hullabaloo was all about) with the whole affair and moved quickly into the children’s section where she remained most of her time.
My sisters, Cathi and Sonia attended as usual. And my cousin, Bobby. It always feels good to have my family with me. And many friends! I also heard from a friend I knew from my work in Child Protective Services. Shawn attended the signing from her home in New York via Zoom! What a nice surprise, thanks to Nancy, the librarian. (Holy Crap, I’m on Zoom.) We stay in touch through Facebook. Also attending were friends who were staff at the summer camp segment of the year-round camping program, these people, one of them a former camper, are the kind of folks any parent would be proud and happy to have in their children’s life. Camp was character building. One camper wrote on FB that her experience at camp saved her life. And these friends – these staff – are a sample of the character building/child oriented program that hundreds – thousands of children learned from. I’m proud to have them in my life as well. In addition, the surprise of the evening for me was an old friend of my mother’s (Joyce) who ran the Headstart program that I worked in after getting out of the military in 1968. She got me started volunteering in her classroom. I left after that first day high and strangely grateful for the experience. I loved it. And wondered how I could work in this field of early childhood education. Well, I was hired as a teacher and ran my own classroom. This experience sent me off on a life career in services to families and children. Joyce has attended book signings for each of my books. She always shows up. We hugged and talked. She whispered to me, “Bobby, do you know how old I am?” She smiled a big joyful smile that took me back to 1968 in her classroom of 4-5 yo kids, “I’m 94.”
So, later at home, collapsing on my bed, I was flooded with memories, all of them proudful, grateful, and sweet.
And the room downstairs? Well, the entire interior of the old high school has been renovated. Our old classrooms do not exist as they were in my memory. However, in my memory that one room downstairs remains exactly as it was that morning in 1961.
Filed under Uncategorized, Writing
POST-ENTANGLED
Now what? Six years into this book project in a dubious effort to somehow express a lifetime and now-it’s done. The book is published and I’m starting this blog today with little idea of where it will take me, except maybe to just start writing something. Entangled was a modest effort at best and difficult to write for a variety of reasons. The initial idea was to be a letter to our children. It took on a life of it’s own when I realized that to convey to our kids the kind of life we (Janis and I) had, it would take a book. I didn’t like that idea; in 2014, I was not in a good state of mind. I was only starting to accept getting older and then tossed into a world of dementia, struggling with guilt and grief losing Janis to a locked unit. I needed to understand all this myself, never mind trying to express it to our kids-it seemed daunting. And that in itself presented obstacles. Would our kids even want that, especially if I decided to go public? What is the point in such an endeavor? How intimate do I dare to be in such a project? I am not a public kind of person. I tend to be private. This changed my outlook on things. (Blogging, for instance.) All of a sudden I felt a need to open this up for my own understanding and maybe in that context it could result in something that others might find, if not interesting, at least addressing some understanding about their own lives, or the life of someone else that they know and love. Annie Dillard wrote: “If we may learn to know, may we not learn to understand?”
Are we just dust in the wind, or is there something else we might be missing? I don’t subscribe to any particular organized religion. I’ve been there, done that. I realized that religions were really ‘a finger pointing at the moon’. I wanted to know that moon they were pointing at-I wanted to know it directly. Religion didn’t respond to my personal search. So at a young age I started to look into many forms of religion that served as a kind of research. I took courses in college related to philosophy and comparative religions and sought out opportunities to be involved in any services that were available to me. I traveled around a little (including while posted overseas in the military) and attended different religious services, read anything I could find, tried out different forms of meditation and settled in my early 20’s on zazen meditation. Zen is not a religion, though it is often viewed as, and associated with Buddhism, Zen is considered more as a tool/method to a way of life, (Shikantaza) and can be attached to any religion, or to none at all.This led to a hobby of sorts in theoretical physics and more recently an interest in the ‘new physics’ and quantum physics that has a comfortable relationship with some of the experiences that came out of my personal quest for a cohesive sense of understanding why we are not just dust in the wind. While writing Entangled I did not plan on getting into my own philosophical quest, but it seemed so much a part of what explained to me this connection of events from my youth up to today that it couldn’t be ignored in Entangled.
I’ve mentioned along the way recently that Janis is my life’s koan. I mean by that that my life has always been about this relationship. Even long before we met. I’m not going to expound on that too much. It’s too complex and is indeed a koan-a paradox, a riddle that defies logic and/or exposes the limits of logical reasoning in understanding the inexplicable. Trying to explain any further than that is not reasonable in this text, and requires some self-study that meditation can assist one with.
So I suppose that beyond promotional stuff I still need to do, Entangled is a closed book.
I’m hoping to get through 2, possibly 3 more books before joining the walker-crowd, wearing Velcro-laced white sneakers, and living on Progresso soup and PBJs. (Wait-except for the walker and the sneakers I’m already halfway there.) I’ve learned from experience that I don’t do well by finishing one book and then jumping too quickly into another. In this case, maybe a little longer given the investment of emotion and time I spent on this one. I’m kind of thinking about another non-fiction work. But, can’t decide what that would be. I am in the early stages of getting A Certain Fall, republished with an additional, added text to the work. I have the rights to the contracted book back and some ideas for adding/updating it. Other projects that I started years ago but left undeveloped are also still interesting to me. One of those has some elements of a work of fiction based on actual events that occurred during my work in the military. I like this idea. The other book I started and still have interest in is a straightforward work of fiction. A novel set in a small fishing community located in coastal Maine. This one would be another attempt at a character-driven novel similar to my earlier effort at this genre in Mother, Night, and Water. I’m looking forward to both of these as possible next projects, and another educational experience/training in writing, especially because I have them both started and moving me into the next phase of their writing. On the other hand, I always enjoy starting fresh. I love the work. But, also now after 4 books, have enough experience that I understand the words: “If your writing comes easy, you’re doing something wrong.”
Filed under Uncategorized, Writing
LYING. (warning: wearing pontificating hat.)
I think most reasonable folks would agree that lying is not a good thing. However, I doubt that any of us have gotten through life without at least telling one lie. Right? I also think that there are exceptions when lying is understood and acceptable. Maybe even kind. For example when someone with dementia asks about their mother or father, family member, or close friend who has died in the past: I recall my father, who died with dementia, asking about one of his friends who was gone. I told him when he asked that his friend had passed away. Dad cried. The next visit he asked how his friend was doing. I hesitated, then told him his friend was getting older but was doing okay. Dad smiled.
Okay. I just lied. The next time Dad asked, I again told him that his friend had passed away, I lied to you because I didn’t want to come across as a smug know-it-all. And also to make my point a little more pertinent: Repeating that interaction over and over again would have gotten the same response from Dad. How do I know this? Because I did repeat it a few more times before I realized how unkind–cruel even–that was for Dad. So…I Iied, and Dad was okay with that. You can see where this would have gone if I had continued to beat him up with the truth.
So, the truth is important not just on important matters, but even on a humane personal level. Except there are exceptions; and when in doubt I suggest err on the side of compassion. But beware the truth will prevail. One way or another it will come back on you, therefore consider your lie carefully, humanely, and with compassion.
We are in a difficult time. Our world as we knew it is standing on its head. And rather than preach about this topic to you I will refer you to a far more credible and eloquent source who’s established himself as a philosopher as well the prominent scientist of our lifetime:
“Lying destroys confidence in the statements of other people. Without such confidence, social cooperation is made impossible or at least difficult. Such cooperation, however, is essential to make human life possible and tolerable. This means that the rule ‘Thou shall not lie’ has been traced back to the demands: ‘Human life shall be preserved.’ and ‘Pain and sorrow shall be lessened as much as possible.’ ” ~Albert Einstein, Out of my Later Years, Philosophical Library, New York, 1950.
I don’t know if aging necessarily leads to some degree of wisdom. Recent events would lead me to believe not. Still, aging to the place of a gray-haired senior does at least allow for (if you’re willing to venture there) evaluating one’s life experiences: good and bad, and drawing some conclusions from your life. In writing Entangled a sort of memoir, I’ve struggled with decisions about what to include and not include, I’ve engaged with a depth of emotions that challenged my judgement to the point that the book almost didn’t get published. It’s been sitting on my laptop awaiting a decision. Leaving stuff out of the book forced me to consider what that meant, is that a form of lying? Who would know? Me. I would know. In the end I’m the one who will have to deal with anything that may not make it into print, but I also know that compassion was my measure. This includes both Janis and myself as well as some other persons, some who will know who they are and will know what was left out. I am not apologetic for the story. I will say that the text as it is written is my honest effort for truth. Whatever I have left out was determined by my compassion for us–Janis and myself and our sincere love for one another, our marriage–I married my friend.
Any extreme is suspect for hurt and danger. Any extreme, even compassion. But, when in doubt err on the side of compassion–caritas, unconditional love and caring will be easier to forgive.
Filed under dementia, mental health, Uncategorized, Writing
Spring at Widgeon Cove
There are many hiking trails down here in Harpswell, Maine. I’ve visited some and still checking out others. Spring has come finally to southern coastal Maine. My companions on these excursions are few: my 5 yo granddaughter, Brinley, loves the hikes and the woods. My other frequent companion is my good friend, Jim. Jim is a little older than Brinley. Closer to my own senior status. (In fact, just a smidgen older.) But, usually I go alone, this is because I like to go on impulse between other activities on my busy calendar.
Each trail is unique with their own offerings of the coastal forests. All trails are rich with the scent of Maine’s conifers, sweet firs and varied brush. Pine, spruce, junipers. The birds are back and provide a soft, songful background to the scene. I met a fox on one trip. He was trotting through the shrubs and crossed my trail, with only a quick glance at me. We both were caught by surprise. Another time I ran into a family of deer. Widgeon Cove is a deep experience. Dark in places with drops into sylvan dips and turns. A few small climbs with trails that split for different sights and views. The coastal forests have suffered over years from strong winter blusters and ice storms, including the ice storm from the 90’s. It has left evidence: damaged trees, sometimes serious, fatal damage, exposing their guts and inner workings; some of these uprootings reaching my own height, other trees busted off above ground level sharp, splintered spears pointing skyward. Some older, larger trees crashed and dying, yet are held up by other sturdier trees. But, on closer observation the forest is growing back with new, green spruce and pine and a few birch and oaks. Life goes on.
For followers to this blog you won’t be surprised if I bring Janis into the picture. I’ve discovered, or become more aware that my nostalgia for all that concerns Janis is unavoidable. It is most heavy at the change of seasons. Seasons without her. Last month we were finally allowed in-person visits. We both have been fully vaccinated. I was able to be with her in her room for 3-half hour visits. These visits are what I call Covid visits. They have to be scheduled and are not daily. However, recently there was a scare after a person tested positive. Not anyone on Janis’s Unit. The facility holds nearly 200 including a Rehab Unit and Nursing Home. They have paused the visits until they re-test everyone in the entire facility. Including staff. This requires several days. They test all persons three times. So far the tests have been negative. I’m rescheduled for next week, assuming that all 3 tests come back negative. There is one more test. The results are due this Friday. So I didn’t have the opportunity to visit her on her birthday. I did send in a dozen roses. And I called her. This is a one way conversation but I’ve done this before and it has been quite successful. Staff hold the phone against her left ear (Janis is deaf and lost speech) and I talk to her. This is brief, partly because Janis’s attention span is lost after a few minutes, and it ties up a staff person because she can’t hold the phone herself. But these brief calls give her smiles and recognition that I have not forgotten her.
I’m going for a hike this morning just up the road from where I live, Curtis Cove. This hike also involves some hills, and also a large open field. I see more hikers on this trail. It’s popular. This is where Brinley and I go most frequently. Also, this Friday I’m meeting up with a man who was a boy in the camping, groupwork program I ran in the 1970’s. We connected via Facebook and have stayed in touch for a while now. Strangely…he’s no longer 12 years old and I’m no longer in my 30’s. As a kid I recall he did a great Steve Martin impersonation. “I’m a wild, and crazy guy!” Glen remained in the groupwork program for a few years and as a teen he helped me supervise outings, including a winter carnival in Quebec City, with younger kids. Several kids from that era of my life have stayed in touch. It pleases me.
Filed under child abuse, dementia, mental health, Uncategorized, Writing
ENTANGLED
4/8/2019 Monday
“slumped in her wheelchair she looked uncomfortable. I struggled to get her more upright. She’s dead weight now. She smiled and looked into my eyes when I kissed her. (A flash of recognition?) She has been without language for a while now. And there are longer periods of time when she is clearly not connecting anymore. Vacant and passive. But this morning a little more Janis. When she smiled after the kiss, I was overcome, and I tried to hide this from her. It is what I live for these days, to just see her happy even if it is just a brief, buoyant moment.”
This is an entry from my diaries that I have included in the book. It was just a few days after a decision had been made to get her into hospice care. Later, that September 2019, she was dying. Hospice and her physician decided to move her into palliative care in a private room on the same Unit with the same staff taking care of her along with a hospice worker. I’ve been reviewing the book and wanted to include this entry in the blog. This was the beginning of a new period that continues today for me and for her. I spent a month living in her palliative care room with her, 24/7. I left only to get meals in the cafeteria and to shower at my son’s house a couple miles away. I massaged her and exercised/stretched her legs and arms. I talked to her. Lots of hugs and kisses. I slept near her and evenings I sat holding her hand while watching TV. She rallied and made an amazing recovery. Some staff called it a miracle. Her hospice nurse told me that in the 24 years she had been in nursing she had never seen such a comeback.
Today more than a year later, I find myself ruminating about this past year. Janis had managed to regain some of her earlier capacities, the one most notable was her previous limited ability to interact and connect with me and others around her. She could laugh and smile and though she was still in a wheelchair, she started trying to feed herself again. All this was, naturally, not a recovery from dementia, but a return to a significant degree of quality of life. It took some effort on my part to not hope for more miracles. But, that was not to be. Still, we could be together again, laugh and share affectionate moments; and I was grateful for that much.
Today, I can’t be with her because of the Corona – Covid 19 virus and the restrictions on visits. That month with Janis last year, is a treasure now. A gift that gave us an opportunity to feel close. I don’t know how much longer she can hang in there, but I feel we are losing time, precious time, not being together and holding onto each other. I can see in her face (or maybe it’s a reflection of my own face) a sense of confusion and sadness. We visit once a month for 15 minutes, separated by plexiglass, wearing masks. There is no conversation (she is deaf and has lost language). Strange how I look forward to these sad visits. I just long for that close proximity to her. But it is a new life living with Covid. It appears that we may be on the brink of a vaccine that might make it possible to start cautious visits without plexiglass, maybe later this spring/summer of 2021.
Meanwhile, I have returned to part-time work at Bowdoin College. It’s 2 days a week and I’m able to make my own schedule. Bowdoin College has been in my background since I started as supervisor of security in the college museum of art in 2007. I chose to go back to work, it has helped me structure my week…my time. However, I am not back at the museum of art. The museum is closed to the public and open only a day or two per week for administrative employees. I work in Security and my job is outdoors so I’m pretty safe wearing a mask. I am required to do a Covid test once a week and I am not in close contact with others. I also do childcare for my grandchildren a couple days a week for just a few hours. I love that contact, it keeps me smiling. I try to follow the news, but on a limited basis – too much craziness going on. I’m still in counseling and do this via Zoom a couple times a month. The rest of my time is spent on chores, housekeeping, and writing. I’m busy. I work out every morning. Hike. It’s good. Mostly good. I’m good. I’m healthy. I’m lucky. I miss Janis.
*
The book, Entangled, is in the process of finding a publisher. I’m sending out query letters for publication.
Filed under child abuse, dementia, mental health, Writing
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