Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘twilight’

Throughout our marriage whenever I got the sniffles — or worse — a full-blown cold, Ken was at his worst.  A nurturer he was not.  “Mom — or mom-in-law,” he would plead into the phone, “Could you come out and help for a few days.  She’s sick.”  “She,” of course meaning me.  The mothers were wonderful and at their best as caregivers and baby sitters while he continued wringing his hands with worry all the while whining and wondering when I would get better.  Once I was on the mend and after the chosen mother had gone home, I often felt a little miffed that he was so incapable of  caring for me.  Sometimes I would tell Ken that it was too bad his investment in a marriage license wasn’t paying off:  Heaven forbid — his wife caught colds!  “Does an occasional bout with poor health entitle you to a refund?’  I teased.  It was a good thing I actually had a constitution of iron and was seldom sick.

In retrospect, I do believe he was terrified when I became ill.  He never said so, but I came to that conclusion because when I was in the hospital and “my primary care” was assumed by someone else, someone he didn’t know and a professional, he became a knight to behold.  My husband was the first one to arrive when the clock pointed to the beginning of visitor’s hours and he was the last one to leave when the nurse growled, “Sir!  Visiting hours are over!”

I was envied in the maternity wards as Ken sat by my bed being the best father and most attentive husband in the land.  He would pull his chair as close to my bed as he could get looking starry eyed and smiling while we talked.  Holding my hand in both of his, he periodically kissed my finger tips and told me how much he loved me.  I suppose the hospital knight canceled out the home klutz because when my colds were gone I always forgave him his incapability, and through the many years of our marriage I have concluded that’s exactly what it was:  Ken was emotionally incapable of stepping into that primary caregiving role.  A secondary support system was something altogether different, and in that role Ken shined like a new penny.

Following the automobile accident, and were he not stricken with a diseased mind, he would have been a permanent fixture next to my bed.  I missed not having him close by, and there were times during the twilight hours when I imagined him near.  With that thought in mind I drifted off into a deep sleep and dreamed about us.

We were celebrating; possibly my birthday which was in the first week of March.  Arm in arm, we were jaunty, each of our steps clicking in unison, tapping out a rhythm along the streets of San Francisco.  I suppose we were looking for the perfect restaurant.  He looked wonderful, his gray hair giving him an air of distinction — and to please me he wore a coat and tie.  He looked so handsome.  The weather was balmy, and I was dressed for an evening on the town; the two of us made a perfectly matched pair.  We were “us” in my dream, strong mature adults with grown children, grandchildren and even great grandchildren, enjoying every precious moment of our life together.  I felt good — and happy — even though we didn’t seem to be reaching any destination.

Block after block we walked, peeking around corners and passing many suitable places to eat, yet we kept going.  Suddenly, and without warning, we passed a darkened doorway and there in the corner was Ken.  Not the mature adult whose arm I had just held in my dream, but Ken the way he is — really is:  Ken with Alzheimer’s — confused and alone.  Were we meeting spirit to spirit? Or was my dream reminding  me that in reality Ken would not be my hospital shining knight, nor would he be my devoted secondary caregiver kissing my finger tips and telling me how much he loved me.  Alzheimer’s had taken that Ken from me, and coming out of the twilight where dreams can be momentarily bright and consoling — then gone like a puff of smoke — I was left to remember that my husband would not be part of my recovery.

Read Full Post »