My search for grace and meaning after a former care partnering life with a wife who suffered from Parkinson's disease and dementia giving her a confused and disorienting world.
For the past couple weeks I have been sorting through and pitching out much of Cheryl’s punding piles that she had squandered away all over her office area. Many of these are simply random collections of old and very old birthday and Christmas cards.
Today I discovered a small envelop with a picture that had been taken of us at a formal dance in 1969. A treasure it is to be sure. But the letter makes reference to me as though I know the writer. She sent it to Cheryl at her address in St. Bernard.
I have no memory of this event. I have no memory of Ginny. Ginny did not pass along her last name. She only passed along her address on the envelope. Who is Ginny? To be continued…
This picture so old that I did not have a mustache or old wrinkled skin or gray hair. I was eighteen and so is Cheryl.
My mother always hated Monday. Even after she was long retired from her working career she would refer to Monday as Bloody Monday. I never understood that attitude.
This Monday morning Cheryl is sleeping in the other room. Quiet after she had been up concerned about strange thoughts just before midnight. She was worried about when Jan and Nancy were going to pick her up. Jan has passed away. Her thoughts are often very jumbled up these days.
Yesterday evening she was very anxious about our nephew Mark and his girl friend Jill. This was brought on by us driving past the FedEx terminal near where we live and Cheryl asking about Max working at FedEx. I responded with the fact that Mark, our nephew, worked for FedEx. I asked if she meant him. She said yes, I think so. And this launched her into several hours of on and off conversation about him and his girlfriend Jill (I quit correcting her ideas) and birthdays and presents and on and on.
After awhile it is very hard to deal with random nonsensical conversation.
I convinced her we should practice her voice exercises. We shouted MAY, ME, MY, MOW, MOO for several minutes. And tried to make AH last for ten seconds. Parkies do not breathe deep. In Cheryl’s case she often has very little air behind her vocal chords.
We rounded out the evening by watching 60 Minutes on CBS and then the movie “80 for Brady” (for the 53rd time).
I am starting to wonder where she has gone in her mind. She has exhibited several unusual behaviors over the past couple weeks but I disregarded them to simple tiredness from her current PT schedule. Physically she seems to be moving worse so none of this seems to me to be helping her.
A few days ago she sat in the rocker in our living room and stared out the window at the bushes in the overgrown lot behind us for two and a half hours without moving. She did not speak during any of this time.
She puts together random collections of pieces of paper and photographs. Some of these I have taken out surreptitiously of her circulation and put them on my desk to look inside her mind. I think it may be scrambled but occasionally I find little gems.
These pictures of Dad were attached to one of Cheryl’s lists of stuff: Moeller; Dr. & Mrs. Fred Kraus; Jeane Krause; Mr & Mrs.; Barb Kalb; Find Barb’s Christmas card; when I find the list compare the list to current addresses for all; Lists <-> Krause, Torbeck, Driscoll, Weisgerber, Welch; Make a list – Cheryl Torbeck, Cheryl’s friends… None of this has anything to do with these pictures which were probably collected for my father’s funeral in 2007. I am glad I found them.
Maybe one day I can find her mind for her and give it back to her.
Adjunct_Wizard 