I kiss her awake in the morning. It seems kinder than other ways. A little smile appears. Is it working? I ask.

The smile becomes a smirk. No. She replies. I leave to return later and try again.

She sleeps some more. I know that because I hear gentle snoring from the other side of the bedroom door.

And then I hear water moving through the pipes. She is alert . Getting cleaned up a bit.

The door opens. She is up. My heart leaps. It’s a new day. A new beginning with less sun than desired perhaps but bright nevertheless.

I smile and plan breakfast.

I am no expert on spiders. For that expertise I defer to my biologist teacher daughter. But to my wife I am mighty.

I call all of these fuzzy guys wolf spiders. I really have no idea if they are or even what habitat wolf spiders seek out. Occasionally one of these guys will appear in the house.

Yikes, eeeekk, yuh, yuh… And I spring into action. Cheryl is not able to co-habitat with domestica anything. It makes me smile and she gives me the slipper that she is getting ready to use to send it to the great beyond. She does not smile. I select my weapon of choice from the box of Kleenex on the counter. I scoop it up. It makes a pleasing crunch as I press down with my thumb. Ugh, she replies.

Lots of things fascinate me, at least, for a short time. I do not know much about spiders. In Kentucky many years ago we stayed for several days at Lake Barkley Resort Park in the lodge. Those spiders are industrious. They made these beautiful circular webs every night near the walkway lights.

This is a picture of a similar web I stole off of the world wide web. Every morning one or several of the housekeeping staff walked around with a broom or dust mop and knocked them all down. Every morning they were back!

Parkinson’s disease is like this little spider. Every morning it scrambles off to the side while some well meaning worker cleans up a perceived inconvenience to the residents. Overnight the meds wear off. The next day they are built back up. Towards the afternoon and early evening the web is rebuilt and the dopamine levels are acceptable.

All is well for a while.

You've got to know when to hold 'em
Know when to fold 'em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run
You never count your money
When you're sittin' at the table
There'll be time enough for countin'
When the dealin's done
Every gambler knows
That the secret to survivin'
Is knowin' what to throw away
And knowin' what to keep
'Cause every hand's a winner
And every hand's a loser
And the best that you can hope for is to die
in your sleep   ... Kenny Rogers (the Gambler)

Who knows why songs appear inside your head? I did not shave today but as I was staring into the mirror brushing my teeth, I began to think, I could grow my beard and look like my brother-in-law or a friend of mine who both resemble in some ways Kenny Rogers the singer. I smiled to myself and the Gambler’s words popped into my head.

So, here I am, listening to Kenny Rogers on Alexa’s mix tape and thinking about “every hand is a winner and every hand is a winner and best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep”. That is a truly a sad lament. A complete loss of hope for the future but it speaks to low places that we find ourselves occasionally in life.

Parkinson’s can be a low place. It does not have to be so.

The switch to Daylight Savings time – there is an oxymoronic statement if there ever was one — is hard for a parkie. So are time zones but those one must travel through to get the unwanted benefit of messing with the meds schedule. But I have diverged. Today after having a very slow start on this second day of EDT, a day that is also warm in Ohio under a worm moon, we went for a walk in the park.

It was an animated walk. Although we are 12 or 13 years down the Parkinson’s road and she is recovering from the time zone change, she is feeling good today. We are walking not far from a neighborhood she knew as a child. The discussion was about grandma and grandpa Pabst. They lived on Pearl Street and had a dog named Moxie. The kids were afraid of the dog. It barked a lot and they sat very still on the couch until great grandma Pabst put the dog into the basement area.

I have heard this story many times over the years and in the past I have shortened the telling by saying that I have heard it before and using commentary and body language to show disinterest. Today I did not. I asked questions to get more detail. After our walk, we drove over a couple blocks to the street and drove around the neighborhood in hopes of jogging a memory or seeing the house. It is a day that she needed to conjure a childhood memory and turn it over and over to examine it. Study it in detail.

We came home and she got out pictures. Very old pictures contained in an old album with the covers deteriorated and broken. It is a good memory of people who are special to her. She was 20 again for awhile. She was telling me stories of her family as though they were still there. For her they are.

Seeing her perk up and become excited to show me something lifted me away from the place I was after listening to Kenny Rogers’s sad end of life lament — “life is hard and then you die.”

All in all a good day.

In my new life as caregiver, I have developed several routines. Friday is laundry day. In the “delicates” load was a pair of black panties and a black brazier. And then my mind wandered off into the weeds.

When we were much younger and it was early in our marriage, I let slip to her that black underwear was for me a big turn-on. Through out our younger lives she kept this in her heart. She would let it be known through certain hints, glimpses in the mirror or direct conversation that this was a good night for what she referred to as intimate time.

On various date nights or other occasions the clue phrase was “I am wearing black tonight”. Somehow the wine in the restaurant tasted better. The conversation was closer. I quit seeing the surrounding tables. I quit hearing the surrounding conversation. I guess pheromones intermingled with testosterone does that.

Sometimes I would initiate the contact. Is this a black night? No, she responded, I thought red would be more appropriate. Well it was! It is hard to go slow and stay with your partner when she is wearing black underwear. Much more so when she is wearing red. Holy cow, I miss those days.

I guess she does too. A couple days ago, I do not recall where we were off to, but I was pecking away at this computer and she, after finishing her shower, stood in the doorway of my home office wearing only the two items that were now in the load of laundry I am folding to put away. “I’m wearing these today”, she announced. My brain went spiraling off into the weeds. Holy cow I miss those days. Sorry. I am repeating myself.

Even now I am distracted by those thoughts. Our intimacies in many ways are much closer now even though less sexual in nature. Love is a lot of things. Only a small part is sexual.

It is hard to express how much closer this journey has made us. It is hard to express how this illness has opened my eyes to things in her that I did not notice before. I am more aware that my words can hinder her. I am more aware that my words can hurt her.

This is an eye-opening experience for me as well as her. I have taken on many of the domestic day-to-day tasks – laundry, cooking and others. We have hired out the cleaning to my niece who has her own cleaning service going. We moved into a condo situation so that lawn care and building maintenance is contracted. I am amused by the fact that I have become somewhat protective of my own methods and how easily I become annoyed when she or anyone else critiques my method.

She takes care of me as much as I take care of her. I miss the younger us. I miss the crazy running around chasing kids sporting events. I miss the, “I’m wearing black tonight.” And the opportunity to make more kids. But I really love her in this moment. I just hope I am able keep caring for her and I as fear for the worst outcome, and cannot fathom why my feeble brain goes there, I realize how deeply I love her.

The black underwear still looks good.

A break up between lovers a saddening, maddening mess
Talking without listening, hearing but unheard
Love let loose to fly without another word
to return from whence within the heart it
escaped to be kept in darkness for the next

A separation of friends a saddening maddening mess
Honesty without charity, unacceptance of uniqueness
Relationship neglected and abandoned with ease
relationship nurtured with love, kindness, empathy, vision
Glad hearts darkened by loneliness and isolation
the light saved for the next

A chronic illness is this maddening saddening mess
acceptance without explanation of symptomatic defeat
failure of love to respond without bias or as unrequited
to her needs without admonishment or regret
a deep need to engender her abilities though fewer
encouragement to succeed without overwhelming
assumption of control to rest for the next

Giving care and help is a gladdening heartening task
done by one for another and back again as the cared for
returns the care and kindness shown.
Love is this, to be shared among both 
or all for the next and this returned 
to take part in and part of the care and love

By Edie Kynard
02/22/20

Lord,as we face this day together, please help me to handle each moment with strength.

May my attitude be positive, my hands gentle when administering help and my heart full of compassion.

(Help me to understand that I do not know all the answers, that only she knows how and what she is feeling.

Teach me to be supportive when necessary, to be the explainer when asked, or to be the leader if called upon by her to do so, but instill in me the patience, wisdom and empathy to determine which of those is called for this time.)

Please lift me up when I am down, show me the humor in awkward situations and nudge me when I lack understanding. (Do not make your nudges subtle for I am male.)

Send me aha moments for us to grow through, messages from above for us to share and empathy so that I can step into his (her) shoes and readjust my attitude.

I’ve asked for a lot Lord, but the most important is my request for forgiveness when, in human error, I tread upon his (her) heart.

So please …keep my feet planted in solid faith so that I can sow seeds of kindness and not weeds of grumbling toward the many tasks at hand.

Fill me with wisdom so that when we walk this journey together we don’t get lost along the way.

In Your holy name, Amen

Men create religion. Spirituality comes from within.

Men make religion. Why is that? Religion of sport. Religion of work. Religion of God. Religion of politic. Religion of drink. Religion of food. Religion of country. A conscientious effort to pursue a topic to the penultimate.

Edie is a Facebook contributer to group directed towards caregivers supporting people who are dealing with Parkinson’s disease. She posted this prayer to the group a few days ago.

A Wife’s Prayer (in the life of a Caregiver) By:Edie Kynard 02/22/20

I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I am taking the spirit of this prayer with me. Many tasks. Easy to get lost. Helping Cheryl to deal with Parkinson’s forces me to look inside and reflect. And I wonder what purpose this disease has.

Perhaps a discovery of what love is and what it is not?

All of us have particular likes and dislikes. Certain comfort foods are associate with meals at certain times of day.

What about chocolate for breakfast?

And sometimes you have to cry. Sometimes you have to tease. Sometimes you grieve for a past life. You may remember it differently from what actually was but the nostalgia is real.

Or you could have chocolate for breakfast.

In the now in the present you keep pushing. Sometimes you laugh. There is joy if you look for it. You can look away to the past.

Or you could have chocolate for breakfast.

Favorite things, favorite foods, favorite places attract you to the old times. Do not disparage the old times. Do not despair of the present times. New things are new favorite things.

Like you could have chocolate for breakfast.

With love all things are possible or so it is said. Chronic disease in a loved one is an opportunity for a deeper love. A deeper truer attachment to one’s own self and the one you love.

It may turn out that you love chocolate for breakfast.

Good times are not all in the past. Good times are now. Merely time is required for the nostalgic longings. Can the circular thoughts coming with age and dreary-ness cause a view of one’s own rear?

And destroy the idea of chocolate for breakfast?

Or is the idea of chocolate for breakfast a metaphor for youth and vigor? Count Chocula a satisfactory conclusion? Or a new beginning. Of something precious. Of someone precocious

Enough to try chocolate for breakfast?