COPING

It is so difficult caring for a loved one who has dementia.  At times they can seem like normal, like they used to be, and you push the reality back in your mind pretending it does not exist.  But it does, and its effects seem to always be a shock even though you have read all about it and know what is to be expected.  I have to constantly remind myself that this is not him who is cursing, calling me names, and saying hateful things. I remind myself that it is the disease. Yet I will find myself thinking or saying, "Why is he doing this?"  It is so hard to face.  Especially when you love that person.
I was speaking with a counselor about it and she told me that the person affected by dementia will often turn against the closest person to them, the main caregiver, who usually is a spouse or a son or daughter.  They can become so cruel in what they say.  They become paranoid and will accuse the caregiver or doctors or nurses of many things.  Foul language becomes common.  Most watch television all the time and will confuse their life with story lines from television shows. 
What is most heartbreaking isn't all the cruel words, name calling, suspicions, and accusations.  The most heartbreaking thing is seeing that person slowly dissolve, slowly melt into the disease.  You know what they used to be like and it is hard to say good bye to that person.  Hard to watch the fading away.

FROSTY FROLIC

We has what is referred to as a hoarfrost one day not long ago, and I had a need to escape and wander in a natural setting.  Camera round my neck, I strolled in awe at the thorny frost on the plants. 

Everything was covered in crystalline  thorns which melted at the slightest touch.


Such a magical scene.
I half expected the Snow Queen
of fairy tales to come walking
 down the path toward me.





Everything seemed so hushed and eerie.

I was all alone and wished someone were there so I could say, "Look at this! This is so lovely!"


I snapped away with my camera to share what I witnessed for it is too difficult to describe.
My breath puffed visibly as I sauntered slowly, admiring the icy stillness.


Enjoy witnessing the wonder I discovered.

NEW YEAR

I am having a hard time welcoming the new year.  As I sat here today I pondered all the difficulties this past year held.  Sure, there were good days interrupted with turmoil, depression and worry.  I would love to think that this new year would hold miracles, with healing for my husband at the top of my list.   As much as I would love this to happen, I know it is not possible.  He will continue to deteriorate.  
Dementia is difficult to live with, difficult to watch.  It is like a magic trick where someone disappears, only it is not a physical disappearance.  The mind, the personality, the person you knew slowly evaporates.  
There is no way to wave a magic wand, say ABRACADABRA, and make it all as it was.  But wouldn't it be wonderful if you could?
What is really difficult is knowing that he knows what is happening to him.  He loses control and I know he must be frightened.
He used to be so gentle and thoughtful, had the greatest laugh, was always so calm.  I  remind myself every day that he is ill and does not really mean things he says and does.  But it is still difficult to face. 
I know this new year will hold more pain, more hurt and more loss.
Today I may have felt lost and frightened, but I know I will get through this new year.  It will not be easy, and I will have days I break down.  But I have friends and family who are there to offer hugs, to listen and just accept me.  This is a great blessing and I thank God.
And each day I will see some beauty, even if it is just a little thing like watching a dandelion seed float on a breeze.

POEM

HE IS GONE

I woke

and mourned

and remembered

the day we opened our scrolls,

looked into each others eyes,

and read our vows;

recalled campfires, games, a thieving squirrel,

sharing experiences together

in peaceful campgrounds, scenic surroundings;

remembered you lifting me

across the threshold of our first house,

laughed recalling the baby skunk experience,

smiled as I pictured the first time

we met our son and you tenderly

touched his hand and held mine.

Moments and memories flashed by,

a movie scrolling through my mind,

filled with joy, laughter, love.

I mourn that this

is all I have left.

There will be no more

pleasurable memories added

to this incomplete film.

I move down the stairs,

turn the corner,

amble behind the recliner

and glance down at you.

This illness seized you,

separated us.

Continual grief

is heartbreaking.