Like grey wolves
lurking in the shadows of evening, just out of sight you sense them,
but they wait quietly. There is no rush. They will get the chickens
no matter what fences you build with love and and planning and
determination. The chickens are toast. Night after night they will
come for more, the wolves. The hen house will persevere for years
sometimes, the squawking alerting passersby of the angst. But those
grey beasts, they have cunning. Into the darkness they will vanish
their prey, the few remaining of the roost ever more timid to crow
their glory. We may shelter the chickens in homes of benevolence,
but the spirit of the wolf knows no walls thick enough to deter it's
hunger. The last of the flock will be taken. Only then will the
wolf den move on to a another conquest.
That is one flitting
perception of dementia. As my wife smiles the biggest heart felt
smile imaginable at the littlest wee bit of attention, I bring her a
morning tea, my heart breaks. I wish to run away, to hide from the
knowledge that she will never again put down my idiotic rantings with
one small word of wisdom. She will only smile, the introspection of
her soul growing ever deeper as her eyes concentrate on that inner
world, her place of refuge it seems, till I break the spell once more
with that wee bit of attention, “Madam, would you mind some
scrambled eggs and toast for your breakfast?” And she smiles,
somewhere deep inside knowing that I jest, and answers with a soft
“Yes,” and I wish to cry.
This morning she
brought to her place where she sits near by me, three pairs of 'dry'
jeans we purchased at the 'Valued Village' just yesterday. I had
hung them on the line in our cats bedroom to air a bit, the smells of
used clothing, even though new looking, being overpowering. The meds
for dementia have helped her memory, but the facilities to make
cognizant sense of those memories often need a helping hand. We will
launder those jeans later, and she will be so proud of them. It is
for those meaningful episodes in our routine for which we live. The
outside world has lost it's significance. She asked me for the
longest time what day and month it was, and we would find it on the
calender, and five minutes latter she would ask again, a compulsion
of sorts. But no longer. The day of the week is irrelevant. The
season is noted by the amount of sweaters and jackets she puts on
when she gets outdoors, since it is not 'cold' enough inside the
house to dress. I'm not an arguer, I just put lots of stuff in a bag
and let her adjust her temperature as she sees fit. So far it works.
Tomorrow probably not.
The need to think for
two people, my dilemma. I spent my whole life avoiding my own better
judgment, and now I'm thrown into this awesome duty our civilization
imposes on caregivers not to screw up. “Did you go #2 today my
deary?” “I know you don't like bathing, but it's been two weeks
my deary!” “Just one spoonful of peas my deary, please, no not
in the garbage!” “Did you take all your meds?” as we rummage
through her purse to find the ones she doesn't like which she sneaked
there when I turned away one second. One second! And as I sit for a
moment to try to remember what the agenda is for today, I look up and
meet her eyes which break into the great big smile which makes all
worthwhile. “How did you know my name was Vicky?” she quietly
asks. “Well my deary, we've been married for over thirty years,
I'm guessing you let it slip once upon a time,” and she gives me
that look of incomprehension, thirty years being a time frame much to
vast to fathom.
I used to walk the
neighbourhood every evening, that masochistic adventure of an
arthritic sojourner exercising those squeaky painful joints. She
would watch the tele, lost in her world of déjà vu. That was ok for
several years with only minor problems to face when I returned. But
then I started to come home to destruction, my desk and bookshelf
contents on the floor. She did not wish to be left alone so I began
taking her with me wherever I went. We took the car because she
can't walk very far. My exercising dwindled as I used to walk
everywhere putting in miles a day. So now we play 'a game' as she
puts it. She sits in her chair and I walk back and forth, wearing a
path in the flooring from the far bedroom window to the kitchen
window at the other end of our abode. She meditates upon this
adventure, uttering a single quiet word as I pass by. Sticks out her
tongue at me, she does, in her more lively moments, so she shyly
tells me, us laughing at the treachery. When the lack of attention
from my introspective thoughts overwhelms her she quietly says
“Holler,” and I know it is time to sit her up straight and give
her a big hug and some much needed attention before I continue on my
journey.
The wolves will come
for yet more chickens. They just wait in the shadows biding their
time. Makes an old fool mature a tad. But an old fool can dream.
Bicycles built for two, riding off into adventures in reckless
irresponsibility, her spirit riding in glory on the seat in front.
Perhaps I will someday have that freedom once more. I will take her
with me on journeys to the far ends of our country and laugh at the
wolves lurking in the bushes. Old fool I am.
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