Pondering a year just past, wondering about the months to come
It was about a decade ago when, reflecting on the year just past, I said, “Well, I never would have seen THAT coming!”
With those words, I opened my first post of 2023 at this site and gave several paragraphs to describe all the ways the previous 12 months had surprised me. I could have repeated the phrase at the beginning of 2024, too, with a new list of surprises. And the words work this morning again as I think about all we’ve experienced this year.
The big difference now, of course, is Evelyn’s move to a memory care community. This time last year, I was only investigating the possibility of placing her somewhere, and only for a two- or four-week respite stay.
But then I made the decision to move her permanently April 2, and now I can’t imagine trying to care for her at home.
A year ago, Evelyn was taking blood thinners because of a clot her doctor had discovered long after it first occurred. (Thankfully, it never moved or threatened her life.) After a couple of falls, seven broken ribs, and a punctured lung—all in the first two months of 2024—the doctors said, “No more blood thinners.”
Then in June she passed out with bilateral pulmonary embolisms—her lungs were full of clots. So after a couple days with a heparin drip in the hospital, doctors ordered the return of the blood thinners.
After that, because she was so unsteady on her feet, and because falls are so risky for fragile seniors taking blood thinners, the director of nursing where she lives recommended we try to keep her in a wheelchair. Since then, she hasn’t been up and walking around.
Last year this time she was doing physical therapy to try to restore balance and strength. This year we’re working to keep her satisfied in her chair or resting in the armchairs of the “living room” in her new home.
When we moved Evelyn, I would have balked at the notion of seeking hospice care for her. But since we took that step after her June hospitalization, I have been grateful again and again for the special care hospice is providing her.
A year ago I was generally trapped at home, except for three or four half-days a week when paid and volunteer caregivers came to give me a break. It was becoming difficult for Evelyn to sit through a worship service and a Bible class, so I was attending one or the other, or engaging a caregiver so I could do both. Sometime early in the year I decided to quit trying to take Evelyn out to eat.
Those days I planned my time around when those caregivers would be available. Now I plan my time around when I’ll go visit Evelyn, a habit that fills at least two hours most days.
But in spite of regular visits with her, now I’m blessed with freedom to be independent—to travel, to spend unlimited time with friends, to organize my days for myself. I’m learning to feel okay about not seeing Evelyn sometimes now and then. And I’ve taken several trips away from home that have been restorative and nurturing.
A visit from Piper brought Evelyn a lot of joy one day this December.
Last year this time, she certainly knew me and our kids and close friends and acquaintances at church. This year we look into her eyes for some recognition. We laugh with her, and she smiles, but she doesn’t call us by name. This may be the biggest change of all.
I think I was anxious last year about the future as I struggled to care for Evelyn and keep her from falling. This year I’m curious about the future as I watch her slow decline. Will this continue in a gentle descent for years to come? Or will her condition someday degenerate quickly into a new level of need? Evelyn could pass away tomorrow, or she could live five more years. I wonder what I’ll say about her condition when I look back on it 12 months from now?
It may not be wrong to think about decline or death, but it is unwise to dwell on them. I’m generally at peace with the uncertainty, although even after all this time, it’s difficult for me to see and accept change. There’s a tendency to cope with each new symptom as though it will be permanent. It’s interesting to me that I still fail to see each new “normal” as temporary.
Last year I was consumed with providing Evelyn’s care. This year I’m trusting that care to others, but I still think daily about whether the care is all it should be.
One thing hasn’t changed. She is content and flexible, meekly agreeing with each request or direction. She seems at peace, not anxious or upset or afraid. I’ll pray that will still be true when I write the first post of 2026.