I drive up to the single story building; for the first time, the door is locked as the residents are inside. My knock is immediately answered by Stephen, the newly promoted Manager of the Memory Care Unit, wearing the Arbor Rose red t-shirt, but he’s entitled to a black, collar-t now. No taller than I, he wears two earrings dotting his curly dark hair, surrounding his younger-than-he-must-be smile.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
100 Words for Sunday, February 4, 2012
From the glass of Harvey’s to put me to sleep to the split of champagne to celebrate, this has been a week of mixed feelings. From anxiety and fear to relief and concern, from overwhelmed to grateful, I feel love and compassion from my family and from the new senior care facility staff. My husband is placid, agreeable, but understandably confused; everyone loves his habits. He shares his books—the one about Einstein drew many smiles—and his Matchbox cars and trucks, each markered with his name, with any staff member he sees. Fortunately for us, this change IS good.
Actually, I wrote another set of 100 words for today before I thought of this one. Here it is:
“Hi,” he says, “he’s right there, carrying a book.” Bob greets me with a kiss and says, “I am so confused.” Then he sits in his lounge chair and takes a nap.
So we can all see that no matter how grateful I am that the move went well and that my decision to move him to the memory care unit was the right one, there is no avoiding the fact that this move was necessitated by the unrelenting progression of my husband's Alzheimer disease, which is so sad. Although I can rejoice in the small miracles that occur, carrying the weight of his illness tires me profoundly. Someone asked me if I still consider myself a full-time caregiver when my husband no longer lives at home; Bob and his well-being remain the center of my life.