One Year Ago

Written about one year ago, this was the first piece I ever wrote about caregiving. It was suppose to be my first blog post about this new role.

Yesterday I put down Sally, my sweet dog of 13 years instead of taking my mother's check book away from her because she has Alzheimer's, and she can't keep track of her paperwork anymore. Not a very nice swap if you ask me. When I came home from the vet's office with my husband, I went for a walk in the woods by myself. He couldn't come with me because he has Parkinson's Disease and the beginnings of the associated dementia. He was once my beloved man of the woods. It was he who introduced me to the breath and spirit of the woods. A place where the ebb and flow of time feels so right. And where the air is always sweet and rejuvenating. Even yesterday I could feel it. I breathed deep and long - hoping to hold on to it through the long days I knew I had ahead of me.

So that's kind of it. There is more of course - all the details of the past 3 years including my Father's struggle with liver cancer and my helping to care for him during his last week with us. And then the laying down of Sally's sister Lindsey.

But this is a blog about caregiving - specifically about my mother and my husband. And, as I have come to fully understand from all the literature and all our health care professionals, that I will need to take care of myself as well. So that is what "Caregiving Times Three" is all about.

I am hoping that the simple act of writing this blog is what will help me care for myself, and perhaps the activity of making time to put words together, form thoughts and then lay them down as a public record of the present will help to keep my brain clear, or at least clear enough so I can navigate and care for the three of us to the best of my ability.

I marvel at the fact that almost every single moment these days feels like a pointed moment in time that I must cherish forever. A fleeting smile from my husband, a glimmer in his eye that I see for just a split second behind his blank mask of Parkinson's, the sun on my studio floor laid out in a magnificent pattern that I will never see again and a lovely lilt in my Mom's voice on the phone before she remembers that I am now the enemy.

I see the time behind me and the months and years ahead like oriental rugs laid out one after the other. Fringe touching fringe. Each one a little more worn and thread bear then the one that came before. I am a fiber artist so the visual of color, form and thread is always what comes to me first. I marvel at how easy it is for me to turn and look back to see the amazing array of rugs stretched out from a place I can longer see. That place called the beginning. Even if I squint my eyes, as if casting a fervent stare into the horizon at sea looking for land or a ship or just human contact, I can't catch sight of the beginning anymore.

I can however see the rich and vibrant shades of dark blue, black, mustard yellow and deep, deep red and how within each consecutive rug they fade just a bit. The rug I stand on now does of course show significant signs of wear. After all, I am almost 60. The pile no longer feels like walking on a cloud of color. And I believe that the protective mat underneath must be showing signs of wear as well, for in places about the rug I can see the weave of the threads below the surface, not unlike the skin of an old woman that cups and shapes itself around the armature of her bones more visibly then in her youth. But truth be told, this renewed harder surface feels sturdier, more stable, closer to the ground the rug sits on. And the faded colors feel softer and somehow kinder to my unfamiliar raw sensibilities. Even weeping feels easier on this rug then the one I can see and remember just behind me.

But you know, at the end of the day when I lay my head down, I know that I can have hope for the promise of the pieces of my future that I can't foresee. And even if I don't feel right about dreaming of those gentler times to come, I can rest assured that a patient continuum of love and loss will surly get me there.