The days are good, even when grief stops by for an unexpected visit

I’m learning to feel good about the new rhythms of our life.

Most often I enjoy the challenge of keeping us fed, and I actually cook (instead of warming up prepared food or leftovers) a couple of times a week. Sometimes this is for company, like Saturday night.

I fixed dinner for friends, and the cook of the two was full of compliments. The roast from the Crockpot was tasty, she said. She seemed surprised at how well seasoned the green beans were. She called the salad refreshing and asked about the recipe. “I think you’re doing a remarkable job,” she told me and texted later, “Thanks for the yummy dinner.”

I’ll take it.

Our meal didn’t look quite this good, but you get the idea. Angelika Heine at istockphoto.com

And I’ll admit it satisfies me to keep the wheels of our routines turning. I feel good about managing the medicines, the showers, and other bathroom duties I once would have said are distasteful. I’ve installed a bumper so Evelyn won’t roll out of bed. I bought slippers with textured soles to keep her from slipping and falling on the kitchen floor. If I can’t anticipate every trouble, at least I can help prevent it from happening again.

I can often ignore her reading out loud from the next room, or I go to the bedroom and shut the door. It’s OK. We usually find something on TV to watch together in the evening, and I’m keeping a list of programs to enjoy if I can find time alone. CBD gummies and an anti-anxiety pill often keep afternoon restlessness at bay. And when nothing mitigates the roaming or fidgeting or inability to follow the bedtime routine, I usually remember, “It’s not like this every night.”

In short, when a friend asks me quietly with concern from across the table, “How are you doing?” I can honestly answer, “Pretty well.” I’m rising to the challenges, and they don’t depress me.

So I’m never expecting grief to come, even though grief seems determined to keep showing up.  

Another visit

It happened Friday night.

As Evelyn and I were eating supper, Evelyn dawdling with her meal and struggling to properly use her knife and fork, my phone beeped. An old friend who has moved far away messaged me to share a Facebook memory.

It was a post Evelyn wrote almost six years ago, reporting an evening out we enjoyed with this friend and her husband: pizza, a movie, and coffee afterward. I don’t remember that particular night, partly because there were so many like it. We regularly spent time with these two, always rejuvenated by a meal and laughter, stimulating conversation and companionship.

And then it dawned on me: Such times will never happen again. Never.

How can it be that I thought such evenings would continue forever? Why didn’t I realize then how important and beautiful and valuable they were?

I began clearing the table, and said to myself, Nothing can fully replace this loss. Nothing.

Yaraslau Saulevich photo at istockphoto.com

Standing at the sink rinsing dishes, I realized I was crying. I stifled a sob and wiped my cheek as Evelyn stood up and shuffled past. I don’t know if she noticed. I do know she wouldn’t understand the crater created by the destruction of carefree Friday nights given to innocent relaxation at the end of a busy week.

Now our weeks don’t so much end as ooze from one into the other. We’re not busy, but neither do we really relax. We just press on.

Gone forever

And learning to feel OK about that has not banished grief from my neighborhood.

Last month Christianity Today published a piece by a man who had lost his mother to dementia. At one point during her decline, he had a sad epiphany, something like the one I experienced Friday. “This is it,” he told himself one day. “In this life, I’ll never really know Mom as she was.”

I can relate. I will never again have the life with Evelyn she and I took for granted all those decades.

Most of the time I don’t think much about that. Most of the time I’m doing fine. Until grief stands beside me at the kitchen sink and I give in to the catharsis of acknowledging my loss.

A persistent reminder

But as soon as I admit that, I go back to what’s pleasant about these days: Abundant support from friends and family with time together and phone calls and help around the house. Meaningful pursuits outside of my little caregiving cocoon. My own OK health. Excellent doctors for both Evelyn and me and enough money and insurance (so far, at least) to pay them. Time to prepare and an appetite to enjoy roast beef from the Crockpot. And more, so much more.

Perhaps I can relish everything still mine even while remembering what’s slipped away. Maybe I can be grateful for distant happy memories. How devastating would it be not to have anything beautiful to look back on? Maybe I can make more good memories, even now.

Maybe I can be at peace with grief—not afraid, not resisting or denying it—because each visit of grief can really be a reminder: What I’ve lost was so good, and for that I can be glad.