Two days with a stomach bug: the good, the bad, and the lonely
Here’s the good thing about having an intestinal virus and living alone: You don’t need to worry about anyone but yourself.
But that’s not how it was a year or two ago when I woke up sick one morning and didn’t give in to Imodium till all strength and energy was totally wrung out of me. By then, I knew I had nothing left to perform the day’s duties: keep tabs on Evelyn, see that she was fed, or help her in the bathroom.
I called one of Evelyn’s longest-term friends who came and spent the day with us. I slept most of the afternoon in a guest bedroom while Jan fixed lunch, kept Evelyn company, and found work around the house to do. God bless her!
Home alone
This Saturday morning I didn’t call anyone. Sick since late Friday night, I knew I couldn’t drive to Indiana to meet a friend for lunch. So I texted my apologies about 9:00 and settled back under the covers. I fell asleep around 10:00, and when I woke up and looked at the clock, it was 4 in the afternoon!
Here’s the bad thing about being sick and living alone: There’s no one to notice.
My Indiana friend realized this, I think, and texted me several times Saturday and Sunday to ask how I was doing.
I don’t know if anyone would have been concerned when I didn’t show up for church Sunday, but I texted the other teachers of my adult Bible fellowship to explain why I wouldn’t be there.
I needed someone to notice.
They wrote kind responses, as did another friend when I decided I could still be contagious Sunday night and a hamburger for supper didn’t sound good. I cancelled plans for dinner with her and her husband and another couple, but she checked back with me Monday morning to be sure I was on the mend.
Ten years later
Two days at home alone, with my computer and television and weekend newspaper. I don’t think I’ve been by myself for two days in a row since sometime in college.
Ten years ago, Evelyn would have checked in on me to make sure I hadn’t died during that long nap. She would have cleaned the bathroom and kept the house tidy. She would have gone to the store to buy me Canada Dry and Lipton’s chicken noodle soup. She would have watched TV with me.
She would have noticed.
I thought of this and remembered an old greeting card I had recently found in the bottom of the junk drawer in my dresser. Long ago Evelyn and I gave up keeping our cards. Otherwise, after 50 years of marriage, we would have needed a whole closet to store them all. Who knows why I kept this one?
It’s a wedding anniversary card. Evelyn wrote a note inside: “You often send me a card at work, so I wanted to do that for you.” The “work” reference means it’s at least 10 years old.
The sentiment on the front:
“It’s all those moments we spend together,
those everyday, simple, no-big-deal moments,
those make my happiness.”
And then Evelyn’s handwritten note inside, below the card’s printed “Happy Anniversary”:
“I just want you to know I love you and can’t even imagine spending those ‘no-big-deal’ moments with anyone but you.”
I doubt she had the flu in mind when she wrote. But it brings me special joy—and grief—to be reminded that she felt that way about the rhythm of our daily lives. Thank you, God, for whatever carelessness or providence prompted me to keep a card that now, no matter what else, I will never throw away.
Missing Evelyn
I wasn’t sad Saturday and Sunday. I enjoyed the freedom to rest and do what I wanted. I thought a little about “what might have been,” but not long.
But then Sunday night Google memories sent me pictures I had taken on Valentine’s Day just one year ago. There’s Evelyn, coiffed and smiling beside the silly card I had given her. (I had quit buying sentimental cards she might not appreciate, opting instead for a picture of a cute, long-eared dog I thought she’d enjoy.)
Just one year ago. So much has changed with her in just one year. We didn’t keep that card. And I didn’t buy her one this year.
Staying away
I wrote each of my private-pay aides, one Saturday and one Sunday, to explain I wouldn’t be bringing my germs to Evelyn or them. They texted me brief summaries of their evenings with her, tender accounts of her behavior and their care.
She was lethargic Sunday night till Jessica asked her if she wanted to listen to our church’s Sunday-morning service. “Oh, yes,” Evelyn said, and Jessica said it seemed to give her a second wind.
I don’t know if they mentioned to her why I hadn’t come, and it doesn’t matter. Alzheimer’s has blunted her capacity for sympathy or concern. We’re not sure if she knows who I am. And when I don’t get there to visit her, it’s OK.
Evelyn doesn’t notice.
