Caregiver Vignette – The Date

I carefully tugged one sleeve of Cindy’s winter coat up her right arm, my body leaning against her from behind to make sure she did not topple over. The second arm always is the more challenging, but I managed to pull her left arm back as far as it would go to slip her left hand into the sleeve without much difficulty. After zipping up the coat and putting on her wool hat we were ready for our big date.

The last time Cindy had been out of the house was exactly two weeks prior, December 28, while our daughter Serena was visiting home. We have a holiday tradition of going to a book store and a restaurant together as a family. On this occasion it was just us, the nuclear family, which I appreciated since from now on for our holiday tradition there are likely to be one or more additions … and one notable subtraction.

I had been keeping track of the weather in recent days, waiting for the right opportunity for our date. Anything over 5 mph winds risked being too windy; anything under freezing risked being too cold. The day I chose for our date was unseasonably warm for Norfolk in January, in the mid-forties, with fairly low wind. We would be able to walk to the pub without much incident.

Everything is relative. Walking without incident with Cindy means something different now. I always hold onto at least her hand to make sure she does not fall down; she surely would otherwise. My habit always had been to walk to the right of Cindy when we are on the left side road. That way I “protect” her, taking the hit first from any reckless drivers veering off the road. Of course, for the few hundred yards between our house and Wood Creek Bar and Grill no more than a handful of cars going by, all under 25 mph, none reckless, but the habit of walking on her right is just how I was raised.

However, Cindy has a permanent list to the left now. That means as we walk with my left hand holding her right she always leans away from me, placing a strain on my arm. I buck my upbringing and walk on her left side, allowing her to lean into me as we walk. She will take the hit first if a wild driver comes but we are, after all, talking about Norfolk.

Once we got inside the pub my strategy changes. I stand in front of Cindy, hold both her hands in mind and guide her as I back up, much like we do at home. Even so, Cindy’s foot strays from the path and knocks over a chair. A customer jumps up to get the chair. Of course, everyone is watching us by now. There was a time when that might matter, but no longer. I notice one elderly woman in particular with her gaze and a gentle smile fixed on Cindy. Cindy gives one of her patented smiles back.

We are celebrities now at the pub. The waiter knows what our routine will be; the bartender knows to bring us one Guinness Stout to share; the owner sometimes meets us at the door. No one shouts out “Cindy!” or “Kirk!” yet, but they know our names and, like the infamous Norm, I usually have a one-liner to share at some point with the staff.

I take Cindy’s hat off and unzip her coat, but leave the coat on. She likes to be warm. I always seat her to my left at adjacent sides of the table as that is the easiest way for me to feed her. There was a time when we stopped going out to eat because I could see that feeding her was a little embarrassing for her, but now I can see that no longer matters. I ordered our usual quesadilla, essentially a finger food that’s easy to handle. I am glad when the food comes and the eating can begin, because the two of us are not much for small talk these days.

After the meal I use my old chestnut of a one-liner: “Can I pay for this with my looks?” I use that so often that our daughter Charissa has the urge to strangle me into silence each time, when she is with us. This time they are having trouble with their card reader and I hope for the possibility that, hey, maybe I will pay with my looks this time.

During the delay in waiting for the bill to be resolved the elderly lady that smiled at Cindy as we entered the pub came over to our table. She introduced herself as Mary Lou, recently widowed, and shared how pleased she was watching us together, seeing how happy we were together. After she returned to her table her son John also came over to shake my hand and express the same general sentiment. I did not go into our story, but told him to read my Humanity Hiker blog. If you are reading this John, please leave a comment.

That was not, nor will be, our last date at the pub. However, that particular date was, and will be, the last time we walked there. Now if we go I get out our “date mobile,” otherwise known as a wheelchair.

Yet continue to go on this date we will. The benefits extend beyond us. A friend recently commented that Cindy may be the only happy Alzheimer’s patient. That’s not true. I personally know other Alzheimer’s patients that were happy and have read about others. Yet that opinion is more true than necessary. We tend to be what people perceive us to be. If people expect a person with dementia to be unhappy that increases the likelihood of that being true. If our dates … or this blog … can raise expectations for people with dementia being happy, my hope and belief is that more will be.