His day began typically, but with a heaviness of pain and sorrow that had been building for days. Morning contemplation with coffee. What could be accomplished today? First lawn mowing of Spring? Surf the Net? Practice music! Maybe a little laundry or floor sweeping just to try to keep up with the chores. Go for a walk. Those seem doable. And they were. But by mid-afternoon, having accomplished these simple goals, his brooding, the festering emptiness below the surface, was noticeably trying to break through.
This should not be a cooking day. It’s time to go out. Get out. Time to change surroundings, have a drink or two. Order something he wouldn’t make at home. But that lingering feeling. Can he muster the energy to get ready and go. And where? Not to his, or their, favorites. Don’t need to compound stress with nostalgia. Again, to the Net; “Restaurants near me.” Nope, that one’s too far. Don’t feel like what’s on ‘that’ menu. What about that new one? Not too far. Not much selection. But should be able to find something to go with a Moscow Mule or Bacardi cocktail.
Comfortable Spring evening, but a little on the cool side. He sees the gas-fueled flames around patio seating. That would be nice. Just a few others. Plenty of room to be alone without being alone. “Are you meeting someone?” asks the hostess. He extends his hand, smiles and says “I’m ‘Joe’. Nice to meet you. Now I’ve met someone. But I’m here alone.” Once seated he knows it won’t be comfortable on the patio, so he heads inside to be reseated.
Agreeing with the hostess on a table, there he sits. And sits. And sits. After ten minutes or so he goes back to the hostess and asks to have a server sent to the table. “I’ll let her know”, she states. Back to the table. And sits. And sits. Losing patience, he goes to the bar and asks to speak with a manager, who is there, and turns. “I want you to know that I just waited 15 minutes for a server to even come to the table. See ya!” and walked out the door. Well, that wasn’t helpful. Didn’t need anger and frustration on top of loneliness and emptiness. Now what? Might as well go home to figure it out.
On to the place across the park from his house. He’d been there before, but not often. Good Mules! Probably get a burger and fries. That’ll work. He walked the 1/4 mile through the park. When asked “Inside or out?” he replied, “Hmmm. Outside chilly, inside noisy.” The hostess suggested the dining area beyond the bar was quieter. And it was. Sitting alone at a small, square table that would be intimate for two, but with chairs for four on its flanks. He takes off his hat and un-pockets his phone, unlocking the latter to the background photo of his late wife, propping it on its case’s stand. Some sort of connection, intangible companionship while he enjoys an impressive breaded tenderloin and two flavored Mules.
And yet the feelings fester, like lava rising in the cone. Smoke rises in the form of welled-up tears. Enough to pull the handkerchief – her handkerchief that he always carries – from his pants pocket. Covered eyes, gentle sobs. As if he’s hiding his grief from those around him. Maybe, maybe not. His server, Emma, does a good job checking in. When finished she clears the dishes and mugs.
Instead of returning with the check, Emma states that the bill has been paid. But by whom? “A very nice person who thought you might be having a bad day”. ERUPTION! He can no longer hold it in. No hiding in a handkerchief now. Emma gives an empathetic sigh and leaves him to his crying.
The fiery smoke billows as the minutes trickle by. Finally, as she passes, he asks Emma about the person who pitied him. “Do I know them? May I meet them?” The person asked not to be made known. “You don’t know her, but I will ask her and have her come over if she agrees.”
More time passes as the eruption settles to a constant heated surge. Then to a festering underflow. Eventually, to some sense of decorum. Guessing it’s time to leave, he tosses a ten-dollar bill on the table as an extra tip for the server, and in lieu of paying for the meal for which he had not had to. He thanks Emma on the way out. All the time wondering who it was that saw through his thin veil of normalcy. He’ll never know.
He nearly dropped to his knees with sorrow and uncontrolled crying as he made the lonely walk home. Was this a gift, or affirmation of his woeful state of mind? Does it really matter anyway? Hadn’t it been getting better? Will he ever be better again?
All he could do was collapse into his easy chair. No music, no TV. No changing into sweats or brushing of teeth. Silencing the phone, he cried himself to sleep.
As you surely guessed, this is the story of me – last Tuesday. You may not have seen my follow-up comment attached to last week’s post. It was a foreshadow of Tuesday’s meltdown.
I woke up Wednesday from bed (I finally made it there in the middle of the night) looking back in the third person on what had transpired the previous day. I couldn’t get that out of my head. So that’s how I wrote it, and have added it to my Writings page in addition to its appearance here in this post.
I felt numb all day. Exhausted from grief. Disappointed that my progress had turned backward, holding out hope that such episodes will erupt less often and with less ferocity. I still have that hope. But it’s going to be a long few weeks leading up to May 12th, the anniversary of Pam’s passing. I still find it difficult to look at her picture without crying.
April 21st, a Thursday last year, was the beginning of the end of Pam’s struggle with PDD (or Lewy Bodies). She woke shortly after midnight with bad dreams and pain, leading to a sedative and a move to her easy chair (the one I now use and reference in the story above). Later that morning I tried to get her up from the chair but her legs were frozen. I tried to lift her and she ended up gently on the floor. I finally got her back in the chair where she remained for to two days.
This was it. The day I always said I’d need help. So I started making calls; doctors, nurses, care facilities, and eventually Hospice. A Hospice nurse came Friday the 22nd (Saturday this year) and assured me they could help. Within an hour I’d signed the papers to make that happen. I had no idea then that Pam would not live another three weeks.
Kara and Kelley arrived Saturday morning. They helped me get Pam cleaned up, dressed, and “comfortably” in bed. The lead Hospice nurse came again to present their plan of action and examine Pam more thoroughly. Thank goodness K & K were there. A Hospice team would start coming daily the following Monday (the 25th).
This chronology brings us current with what happened one year ago as of today (Saturday). In Pam’s words, it’s still “bullshit!”