One week after our big transition: I’m hoping the shadow has passed

Monday afternoon, after accepting a last-minute invitation to travel to Indiana, I saw the total eclipse. The location our group chose, just a short walk from our host’s home, was a remarkably uncrowded park with expanses of spring-green lawns and a friendly security guard who gave us free water.

The sunny afternoon was blissfully warm, punctuated by our laughter and happy chatter until we were moved to oohs and aahs when we experienced totality, an eerie darkness that lasted almost four minutes. I am so glad for the dear friends who included me in their outing.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience in a week filled with singular events.

• The Tuesday before I had moved Evelyn to her new home, a memory care center in Mason, Ohio.

• That night I started a new routine, sleeping alone in an empty house, a pattern that will likely last the rest of my life.

• Throughout the week I enjoyed lunches and dinners with friends, participated in two different service projects, and had the freedom to handle errands without rushing home to relieve a caregiver or worry about taking Evelyn along with me.

We have begun a new life.

Observers from far and near have seemed to sense the momentous nature of the transition. I have been flooded with good wishes: blog comments, personal emails, texts, and cards. Most said they were sure I had made the right decision. Some confessed tears and sadness as they wrote.

Many promised to pray, and the peace I’m feeling is evidence that God is answering.

The unspoken message in many messages was, “I hope you’re doing OK.” I can honestly respond, “We are good.” This is true for several reasons.

An easy move

For starters, the move-in at Evelyn’s new home (Artis Senior Living: A Memory Care Community) was smooth.

The good people there greeted her warmly and allowed her to explore the place largely on her own terms. A friend went with me, and we were there about an hour before it was lunchtime and we ushered Evelyn to her table and met the two ladies who would be sitting with her.

I’ll admit the grief hit me in waves that night and over the next couple of days, and I still have moments. But now I can usually think and talk about this without breaking down.

I’ve had several positive interactions with Artis staff members: in person, on the phone, and via 20-second emails sent to give me little glimpses of Evelyn eating, getting her nails done, or engaged in some other way.

I’m settling in, and it seems Evelyn is, too.

First visits

I was a little anxious about going to see her the first time, but it wasn’t at all difficult. She was glad to see me Sunday, but she took my visit in stride as if it were normal for me to be there. I saw no anxiety and no tears when I left. It was much the same for a second visit yesterday.

A caregiver friend spent two hours with her Monday while I was out of town. I was eager to get her assessment and pleased when I read the report she texted me that evening:

Evelyn was walking around when I got there, and it was actually hard to get her to sit through some of the activities. But she had many smiles.

She was speaking in many full sentences, too. When an activity time went into its third activity, she got up to leave and said, “I’m just thinking we all should be leaving, and no one is leaving.”

Her mobility seemed excellent.

She won four bingo games and seemed quite social.

One lady couldn’t communicate but was reaching for her from her wheelchair away from the crowd. So Evelyn went over to her, held her hand, and smiled like she was trying to soothe the woman. It was pretty sweet.

I told the workers it looked like she was at a church, serving and being hospitable.

I’m not sure we could ask for anything more. I thank God every day for his sustenance, experienced in so many specific ways.

Maybe, as with the shadow that left the sun so soon Monday, brighter days are ahead for us too.