Monday, June 25, 2018
Variations on the Melody of Love. Part 2
See Part 1 here.
I quickly become accustomed to repeating information, very gently, very softly. Always current information.
But our past memories are easily accessible and validated.
Odd questions are thrown at me:
"How are the neighbours around here? Have you gotten to know them?"
"Do you like your neighbours?"
I'm a type A personality so appreciate this rather rapid descent into tolerance and patience. Lessons are valuable no matter how I learn them.
I take charge of the driving and mealtimes and quickly realize that entering any new establishment at odd times like 3 o'clock in the afternoon is a signal to her that dinner is soon so I avoid such afternoon introductions of new places.
At night, I begin to read to her a novel I am editing, but realize that her retention of memory from the night before of what transpired has now evaporated.
I am mindful of her mother, laughing like a child, remarkably aware, who descended rapidly into dementia, saying that now she read the first page of a new book over and over as it was always fresh to her.
I abandon this endeavour on the 3rd night and she never remarks on the absence of this activity.
Instead we talk, of her family and mine (mine are re-introduced, she'd forgotten my siblings even though she met them a few times). Her clarity on her own family is superb, including the distance she maintains from a fraudulent and abusive sibling. Our common friendships are relived and savoured. Our past relationships and erstwhile partners are evaluated with hindsight, wisdom and laughter. She even proffers some startling new (to me) information on a former husband that she has previously withheld.
She is very kind to me, even though I have to repeat, gently, my health challenges just about daily to her. I carry my cane to reinforce this with her. And it works.
"Tell me again what's wrong with you?" she says every morning, with such deep concern and compassion and love. I slowly explain about my PVD as if for the first time every time.
A frightening panic-filled moment comes when we leave a historic market place on the fourth day of our holiday.
"Somebody stole my car, where's my car? What are we going to do?" she wanders around the parking lot very upset.
"It's OK,"I say,"You know what? I think I drove today. Look for a sapphire blue car!"
"Oh my God, of course that's it! You drove today!"
I drive every day we're together.
But unbeknownst to me, the miracle is waiting just around the corner.