JANUARY 21, 2010

“I’ll phone you tomorrow early afternoon,” said my daughter, Julie, calling me yesterday reminding me that Ken and I had a wedding anniversary today, the 21st of January.   “There’s a new tea room uptown and we can go there for lunch depending on how Dad is doing.”   “That will be great,” I answered, thanking her for the invitation and for remembering our special day, as if she could forget. 

Last year Ken was less demented than he is now, but still had little memory of us as a couple.  Nevertheless, as dinner time approached, marking our anniversary, I decided to “celebrate” by taking him to Neumanli’s, Julie’s restaurant.    He agreed that going out for dinner sounded good.  In my ever-hopeful mind I envisioned the two of us at our intimate table for two tucked in a quiet corner; the romance of us — who we had been —  pulling him into some kind of lucidity, if only for a brief time. 

Of course, there was no miracle.  He wolfed down his food and asked me to take him home as his wife was probably waiting.  I explained to him that I hadn’t finished my dinner.   He was without any kind of good manners, almost like a naughty child.  When I didn’t leap up from the table to accomodate his request my “date” became so obnoxious I hurriedly ate the rest of my food, and we left before his annoying manners caused the other patrons to wish they had dined elsewhere.   Thanking Julie for dinner, I scurried him to the car declaring to myself there would be no more celebrations, nor any more attempts at celebrating.

Yet, here it was again.  That’s the trouble with special days, they keep showing up on the calendar with no escape.  I had vowed to ignore the whole thing, but somehow the longing for even a small observance of our togetherness remained so strong I became hopeful that perhaps a short outing with him would suffice for me.   However, this morning was no different from how Ken has been lately as his Alzheimer’s takes him further and further away from me, the person who loves him most in all the world.  Lately, he sleeps until noon or 1:00, gets up, eats and naps a bit on the couch, then wanders around the house in his sleepware refusing any and all suggestions.  I wonder if it’s all the rain we’ve been having that makes him so gloomy?  The days are so dark and dreary.  Seldom does he want to shave and shower or become part of the real world until around 6:00 p.m., at which time he is willing to do anything I ask, but only during a limited window of opportunity.  By then, there is only time to get him cleaned up.  Still, I wanted today to be different.  If only he had cooperated, we could have taken in a movie as well as lunch with our daughter.

Julie called at 1:00 and I told her it wasn’t going to happen, and I thanked her for the effort.  Wistfully, she said, “Happy Anniversary.”   I looked out of the window at the rain; such a gray day.  I so wanted to get out, feeling a little cabin fever after so much wetness.  Ken was content doing nothing, which is not good for him either.

At 6:30 p.m. the phone rang again.  “Hi,” said Julie.  “Can you open the front door.  It’s pouring out here and I want to make a quick run into the house.”  There she was,  still wearing her chef’s coat, taking a few stolen minutes from her restaurant and holding a tray carrying two speciality desserts zigzagged with chocolate sauce just as if we were at an intimate table for two.   Tucked under one arm a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses glistened with raindrops.  “Here,” she said, setting down the tray and handing me the bouquet, “I know it isn’t the same, but just pretend.”  I felt moisture puddle in my eyes as I put my favorite flowers in water while she visited with her father.  He may have recognized her, at least he was friendly and allowed a hug and a kiss goodbye as she dashed away.

I had already planned dinner, and now I could really pretend:  Little Caesar’s Hot-N-Ready pizza with two green salads arranged on a dinner plate looked a bit more exciting when placed next to a candle and a vase of roses, especially on the kitchen snack bar.    To add to the festivities, I filled two flute glasses from a chilled bottle of  Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider.  Ken lifted his glass as I lifted mine.  “To us,” I said.  “God bless you,” he returned. 

He gobbled down his dinner, as usual, telling me that everything was very good.  I cleared the dishes and served (complimentary from the best restaurant in town) our beautiful dessert.   “Did you cook all of this,” he asked.  “Of course,” came my answer.  I suppose it was all right if I kept pretending for a while — and thank you Julie — for allowing me to celebrate one more time.