One year later: reflections and a resolve to keep on writing

A friend met me for lunch and mentioned my blog. “The tone of your writing has changed,” he said. “Now you sound less . . . angry.”

Angry? If I’ve been angry, I haven’t admitted it. But I do believe I approach each week’s writing these days with less agitation. I think I’m more resigned, more mellow now than when I first posted here 364 days ago, March 9, 2022.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on what I’ve learned and where I’ve come in the year since I began chronicling our unchosen journey. A few tentative observations:

Scenes during a year of blogging. October: Evelyn using an activity book and lap desk she received from friends.

The grief becomes bearable.

It doesn’t go away, but it feels less piercing now, less urgent, less necessary to describe. I’m slowly coming to accept our new realities. (Maybe this is what my friend was seeing.) I’m not shocked by the symptoms. I’m slowly giving up trying to maintain, let alone restore, the life we once knew.

I expect to redirect Evelyn when she heads the wrong way to our bathroom. I calmly tell her again where we’re going or what we’re doing, even though I’ve repeated it several times. And I don’t react if she angrily insists, “I wish somebody would tell me what’s going on around here!”

I barely react when I find kitchen scissors in the top of her jewelry drawer, dirty socks stashed with her clean underwear, or the newspaper sections taken apart and reassembled in random fashion with page numbers jumbled out of order.

I expect to turn out lights left on, wash garments after only one wearing, and cajole and convince her to take her pills. I’m learning to start leaving early so a last-minute hunt for shoes or purse or glasses doesn’t make us late.

The thoughts of what was or what might have been come less often, but when they appear I don’t deny them. Grief repressed leads to physical and emotional breakdown. And another friend has made me aware of the toll it takes to be constantly alert and on call. So sometimes I cry, but without the sobs I experienced earlier.

The changes continue unabated.

One reality I’m learning to expect is the fact of inexorable decline. Embarrassing or annoying behaviors are occurring despite my efforts to quash them. I’m slowly learning to give up trying. She’s slower in the mornings and becomes agitated in the evenings. A fall in September caused a pelvic fracture, and she’s taking a blood thinner after we discovered clots in one leg.

While it’s true that all of us live in deteriorating bodies, I’m a witness to how the combination of Alzheimer’s with Parkinson’s accelerates the process. Nevertheless, the progress of these diseases with Evelyn is slower than in some patients, and I’m very grateful.

The pleasant moments are precious.

July: A goodnight hug from our visiting grandson

She often enjoys music in the afternoons, and I regularly hear her reading aloud from the newspaper, a magazine, a book she’s pulled off a shelf, or her Bible. We chatter about the birds in the backyard, the businesses we’re passing in the car, or the flowers in a neighbor’s yard when we get out for a slow walk. She still wants to see our friends at church, and she sometimes comes up with a remark at dinnertime that brings a chuckle.

I found her standing in the middle of the bedroom Monday morning, awake and up but unsure what to do next. I stood beside her, waiting for an answer to my questions, and she looked at me and smiled, as if to say, “This is quite a situation we’re in, isn’t it?”

I’m seeing the problem all around me.

I’ve been amazed at the number of caregivers I’ve discovered since we went public. This only makes sense, given the millions of documented cases of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s out there. I know I’m not alone, and this definitely is encouraging.

And it’s surprising when yet another husband or wife comes to me quietly to report they’re dealing with a similar situation. We learn from each other. This probably wouldn’t have happened if Evelyn and I had stayed in the shadows.

 Friends are indispensable.

September: a get-together with longtime friends.

This year’s posts have been sprinkled with accounts of dinners with friends, food in our freezer, gift cards in the mail, and caregivers volunteering to visit. I haven’t made room to mention each encouraging email, helpful book, or link to a useful resource. They come almost every week.

And last Friday, one of my best friends volunteered to project manage the task of finding a business to handle a major home repair we need here. Overwhelmed by the wash of relief I felt when he offered, I couldn’t speak for one full minute.

Only slowly am I learning not to feel guilty when I need help. Someone reminded me, “Your friends want to help, but they don’t know how. You’re bringing them a blessing by telling them what you need.” I’m trying.

 God is ever present.

The service of all these people may be the best way I see him working in my life. Any objective analysis of my situation would show the “Pro” column longer than the “Con,” and I’m giving God the credit for that. “Every good and perfect gift is from above,” the brother of Jesus observed, “coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows” (James 1:17). I’m struck by how many good gifts he’s given me.

So, while our lives have changed, I’m seeing that he does not. And as I seek him, confessing all my fears and failures, asking for strength to cope with the speed bumps, and thanking him for every instance of help, I become more aware of his presence.

He promised through the ancient prophet, “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart” (Jeremiah 29:13).

I’m seeking him now more than ever. And again and again, I realize how he’s showing up. If he and I keep this going, maybe I’ll have material for another year of posts.