Happy Holidays?

Our bedroom door is directly across from the bathroom door. As I guide Cindy from the bathroom to her side of the bed, the opposite side from our door, we stop halfway. Cindy sits down on the bed, not so much because of the physical exertion from walking fifteen feet, but the mental exertion from focusing on her balance for that short distance. Sometimes I feel a little tightness in my chest during this ritual.

This tightness is not the sign of heart problems. Around the time of Cindy’s diagnosis, I felt a similar tightness when I walked the aisles grocery shopping. This would have been more a symptom of depression rather than heart problems, except that this tightness only occurred when I was alone in the supermarket. All other times I was fine, willing and eager to embrace the challenge of maintaining a high quality of life for both of us during our remaining time together.

Rather than depression these were just isolated moments of sadness. Why the supermarket should bring that out in me I don’t know but I consider myself fortunate. A much worse problem would be if being alone in the woods brought that out in me, or anywhere in nature, as one might expect would be the case given our backgrounds. But no, only the supermarket delivers a tightness to my chest that compels deep sighs.

Which means that once Cindy got to the point where I needed to take her shopping with me these bouts of tightness became a thing of the past. Sure, there were still sad moments here and there, how could there not be, but no tightness or deep sighs as we mostly enjoyed life together during Cindy’s “early retirement” years.

Now Cindy is at the point where taking her shopping would be a burden for her. Fortunately, Charissa comes home at regular intervals, bringing the necessary groceries for the week with her. I did go grocery shopping alone over a week ago and, sure enough, that tightness came back. I suppose it always will but, once again, for it only to occur when I’m alone grocery shopping seems to be a blessing. If I feel I need some type of catharsis in the fututre I know where to go to heave a few sighs, maybe even sobs, then leave it behind me.

I bring this up as a reflection on two polar opposite perspectives during the holiday season. One perspective is about the joy of being with loved ones, the other is about the sadness of being without. Because of Cindy’s affliction, I’m caught between both emotions.

On the one hand it looks like Cindy will make it through the holidays, a good thing. She still is mostly happy, an even better thing. On the day before Christmas we intend to revive two traditions by blending them. One tradition was delivering Cindy’s home made cinnamon bread to neighbors and friends in town during the afternoon. She started out making bread for all our family members and work colleagues for Christmas. Then I got the convenient idea to include an ever broadening array of neighbors and friends as well, convenient because I delivered the bread, often being invited in for holiday refreshments in the process.

The other tradition was to host a dinner party for family in between the 5:00 and 10:00 Christmas Eve services. Cindy is no longer capable of engaging in either of those traditions, leading to the compromise of having an afternoon get together for family and some friends before the 5:00 service. The likelihood that Cindy still can enjoy at least that compromise to our traditions is cause for joy.

Yet as I get her up from the foot of the bed to shuffle the remaining eight feet where I can tuck her in, I know with certainty that this will be the last Christmas holiday we spend together. That is cause for sadness, for the tightness in my chest.

When Cindy first knew she had Alzheimer’s she handled well the reality that her life would be shortened. As soon as we got home after hearing the news she started sorting through stuff in the attic, targeting which daughter should get which treasure, all in relative good spirits. In contrast, she had a much tougher time accepting the reality that her mind would continually deteriorate up until the time of passing. Those  sad moments for her decreased over time as she became less aware of her affliction.

I am just the opposite. I thought I would have a tough time with her deterioration, even thought that she might end up in a nursing home like two other relatives who spent time under this roof with Alzheimer’s. However, as I continued to adapt to each new level of deterioration I eventually reached a tipping point of confidence that I could handle anything … as long as I can keep Cindy smiling. As I get her up from the foot of the bed I joke about what a couple of old folks we have become. “We.” I always use “we” for comments like that and Cindy chuckles that I can so gaily refer to us growing old together.

Ah, but the end getting near, that I am not handling as well, even as I smile while lifting Cindy up in my arms and placing her in bed. “I’m making sure you don’t steal my pillow!” I chastise. This refers to the frequency of her head ending up on my side of the bed, which I use as my excuse for tucking her in like a child. I make it seem like I’m sticking up only for myself, but she gets the joke, if not the motive, and never fails to beam up at me in response.

With such radiance from her on a daily basis I am not really depressed. This Christmas turns out for me to be neither a time of pure joy nor pure sadness, but some measure of both. That has been my story as a caregiver, with at least our joy together outweighing the sadness. I’m mostly doing fine with occasional bouts of deep sighs, that is all. The holidays are not really at the root of our joy or sadness, but rather a focal point for drawing out those emotions that already lie within us. I should be fine next Christmas as well, as long as I’m not grocery shopping alone.