DEPRESSION

Ken and I have always been available to “borrow” one of our grandchildren when their parents have a date night, so when our son, Keith, and his wife, Sabina, asked if Jessica could stay for the evening I agreed without hesitation.  She is 10, their only child and our last grandchild.  It would be a lonely place for her in our large family with a decade or more between her and the next youngest of her generational cousins except for the fact that many of them have children of their own, some older than Jess and some the same age, much to everyone’s pleasure.  For her, a cousin is a cousin no matter what the generation.

Jessica always comes with her own supply of things to do: puzzles, books, art equipment, cards or board games.  A few years ago the three of us played “Fish” together.  Grandpa Ken was able to match the cards and we were all very competitive.  This visit she brought “Sorry,” and it was just the two of us who played.  Simple as it is, Grandpa has no interest in playing games, nor do they make any sense to him.

He was, however, pleased to see Jessica even though he doesn’t remember who she is, neither does he remember her father.  When company is here, though, Ken often feels duty bound to carry on a conversation with the visitor.  Noticing him standing in front of the 10-year old, and looking a little formidable as he spoke, I moved behind him watching Jessica’s sweet face.  Ken’s voice was on the serious side as the sentences fell from his lips, complete in form, but untied to the following thought, if there was a thought behind what he was striving to communicate.  Jess looked up at him with an equally serious face, her brow furrowed; head cocked to one side, her lips pursed a little, more in puzzlement than getting ready to respond.  Not wanting to cause her discomfort, I asked Ken if he was still watching TV.  Distracted from saying more, he returned to where he had been.

“Has your dad talked to you about Grandpa’s illness?” I asked.  Ever the little adult, she answered, “Yes, he talks about it sometimes, but it makes him depressed.”  “I know, It’s very sad and it makes us all depressed,” I answered not wanting her to be burdened by adult problems, but her grandfather was “different,” and she needed some explanation, and is doing well in her understanding.  I smiled at her loving compassion about her father being depressed.

So, there it is:  “DEPRESSION” big, bold and bad in quotes and caps: the dark shadow constantly lurking in the corners of our minds — poking and stabbing at the continuing sadness griping our hearts.  Obviously, the question here is, “How to keep the ‘Big D’ in its place; to keep it from taking over the lives of our family — and mine?”

At a group meeting on depression, a family therapist suggested taking lots of hot showers.  And that works, but it’s impossible to spend a life time under the shower.  My best fight against depression is by living as “normal” as possible.  If a friend calls and wants to come for a short visit, I respond with, “Please do,” no matter how blue I might be feeling.  When he/they/she leaves, I feel better.  The same applies if we are invited to dinner, we go even if it takes trickery to get Ken out of the house.  If my AD husband is in a Ken mood, I’ve been known to stop the vacuüm cleaner mid-floor, get our coats, get in the car and take in a movie, go to the Mall, take a walk, visit a friend, or an ailing person in a rest home or hospital and I feel better and less depressed.  The big bonus is that Ken “is” better as well.  In other words, invite people into the house or get out of the house as often as possible.  Strive to be “normal,” whatever that means.

However, we all acknowledge there are no guarantees for daily visits and getting out is not always possible.  That’s when I find something for me.  I write, I sew, I am artistic, I have a dozen projects unfinished, and weather permitting there are weeds to pull, plants to prune and gardens needing care.  At times I can coax Ken into sweeping walks or picking up cuttings.  In two words:  keep busy.  Is it easy?  Never!  The most difficult part of doing anything is beginning, which often takes more of an effort than the task itself; especially when depression’s tempting invitation to come and sit by him on the couch and brood is so simple.  Battles are never easy, and fighting AD is a battle, especially with its most cunning collaborator: depression.

Jessica set up our board game and I finished a few chores, then the two of us played “Sorry” while Ken watched TV.  We were all content.  Depression remained in its dark corner — until some other time.  And Jess — she beat me three times out of five — and she wasn’t even sorry.