I bounce into the ward, feeling pretty good because I had free time. He is standing in the middle of the area between the lounge and the dining area.

The look in his eye is vague and I weave up.and down in front of him, beaming energetically, until.he focuses.

“Hello,” he says, “I’m afraid I don’t know who I am.” I am a bit stunned but take a chance that what he doesn’t know is his nouns and pronouns.

“Oh well hi, I’m Delores.”

Instantly the reply comes, although a bit reflexive, “I’m Don,” but I can see he is wondering, so what?

I gulp mentally and smile and stroke his arms, “I’m your wife, …your woman.”

He relaxes and a bit of light comes into his eyes and he says, “well that’s smart, that’s good.” He strokes my fleecy and is amazed, “you are soft.”

Whereupon we wander up and down.the halls, him talking a mile a minute until, 15 minutes later I collapse upon the couch, exhausted. There ensues a lot more discussion with several other residents, none of which would work as conversation outside the ward.

Fortunately the wonderful rec people come in to sing “Irish songs” and I once again escape, head twisted, but I think intact. One more time surviving,  and remembering how it felt to live down the rabbit hole 24/7

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I want to go home

” I want to go home. I want to take you home with me.”

Two days ago he was saying, “I could go with you ” when I left after a 2 hour visit.

Yesterday in the middle of grocery shopping I was wiping away tears remembering that is what he always said when I went off to a meeting  whether next door or far away.

And many times he did join in. He always joked that, amid all the causes, his tshirt would say, I lift heavy objects, and so he did, over and over, for our work.

I smile and laugh, and cry, inside, silent until now, when I can tell you, my blog companions and friends, tell you words i could never say if and when we meet.

Outside of my skin, acting for him, I hug and cuddle and reassure.

It has been a very long time since he verbalized so clearly, and even longer since he talked of home.

He who trekked across the land of Canada every year, loving every mosquito-infested  endless mile of it – dragging his family with him- hasn’t mentioned for a couple of years his Madawaska Valley home farm, his home river, his brothers and sisters whose names he recited, counting on his fingers lest he forget,  every morning for years as the disease progressed: “Dearl, Dalt, Eleanor, Don, Faye, Gary, Garth, Dean, Carl,  Dwight, Sharon.” They were his anchor to home.

Now as the care aides change and clean him, he holds on to me whimpering, then looks strongly into my eyes and repeats, “I want to go home.”

He has probably been thinking a long long time to formulate this – through the month-long norovirus closure that killed 2 out of 17 in his ward from resulting pneumonia, through the pending death of his best buddy on the ward, who got the virus and has now stopped eating.

Who can argue? this place is clearly unsafe and he is right to want out. The staff are trying so hard but the management- public or private –  is non-existent to support them.

I entertain wild thoughts of a health care caravan to bring him home, but that is fantasy of the worst kind. He barely recognized where we were 6 years ago, the last time we made the pilgrimage to Ontario. And so many of his generation who he loved deeply– Faye, Bert, Mac – have died.

But fantasy aside here and now, for the sake of my own life – and then thus his – I just cannot bring him home with me to “our” house. I wish with all my heart it was different and I could see another way forward to bring him home,  but I can’t.


Thank you for listening and witnessing. Namaste.




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22 days

It has been 22 days since I have been locked out of my love’s care room.due to a vicious round of norovirus which is currently re-infecting those who have already been sick a week ago. How long these fragile souls can withstand this extra stress should be a concern to all relatives.

At first it felt like a bit of a holiday– freedom from the wrenching emotional roller coaster of anticipatory (and ever-present real) grief which is triggered less or more with every daily visit.

I suddenly had time for self care like a visit to the dentist, a call to a friend. I was ok.

But now enough is enough. I need to see him, hug him, enjoy his presence and I cannot.

Worse, there is no communication from the facility. No measures announced from Island Health to help or check on procedures at their contractor. A contractor with neither dietitian nor director of care. Who is addressing protocols?   who is ensuring consistency throughout the system? who is searching for the weak links in their sterilization methods? Are they washing the floor every day with disinfectant? I know the staff are wiping and cleaning but they are starting I suspect to feel defeated.

We who wait can only wonder, and try to figure out a lever of accountability. Anyone know a good lawyer?


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For DJ

Tonight I grieve and weep for a friend of my love, who has departed,  gone to the light, away from the dementia care ward at CVSV.

When I knew him he was a gentle soul, always with a crooked smile and a light in his eyes for me. In these last months he could not walk and was very ill and could hardly speak, but sometimes whisper.

In his real life, in the old days, strong, athletic, a mountain climber and so much more. That man I never had the chance to know.

Only a few weeks ago, as he and Don sat at a beautiful fiddle quilt his wife had made, Don was in sleepy distress, muttering with his eyes closed. His friend, slowly, slowly, with great concentrated effort, reached out his hand in comfort.

That is the kind and gentle soul I grieve tonight.


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I have great belief in what I call the “back of my head.” Often when I thought i was struggling with a life decision, on looking back I realise steps taken, which prepared the way,  reveal the “back of my head” already knew what I was going to wake one morning and suddenly decide.

In my 30s I started running  a fever every evening from  8 PM to 8.30. I am not one for doctoring – had way too much of that as a helpless kid – so usually I would never run to the doc. But this symptom was so specific I figured there might be a clear cut answer, so off I went.

She looked perplexed and to my disappointment said, no, I know of nothing that would cause that. She ordered some tests and looked up and asked  when did you last have a pap test? Of course, the answer was basically never, and before I knew it I was flipped on my back getting The Procedure.

Well one thing led to another, the cancer shute I call it, each test more grave, and finally,  with some drama, much meditation and self-examination in face of potential death, along with a serious hemorrhage along the way, I wound up cured.

And wiser, with a deep belief that the back of my head was looking after me.

I saw another doctor listen too, when, as she was about to treat me for a dislocated shoulder, she looked into my eyes, stopped, and sent me instead on the 2 hour journey to hospital for an xray. The ache from the now healed break in my upper arm reminds me of that moment, and I am thankful.

And last week i was visiting Don as he lay in bed at 2 PM. “Oh,”he said, looking at my silvered hair, “Your wings are beautiful.”

He eventually got up, driven by hunger. While he gobbled lunch, I picked up a tough bit he had spit out. Usually I don’t worry much about hygiene between us, focusing on sterilizing my hands on the way in and the way out of the ward. But this time something niggled, and I went to wash my hands that extra time.

The next day the facility went into “lock down” as Don and most of the residents, and the long-suffering staff, struggled with a wave of norovirus.

I am so far fine, and more convinced than ever that the whispering intuition at the back of my head knows way more than the babbling I.

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Videos for dementia caregivers

Supported by the Victoria Hospitals Foundation and produced by Island Health, this series of videos for dementia caregivers covers a range of topics to help those caring for a loved one living with dementia. Extensive and useful. Video series

It is of course all so you can keep your loved one at home, which is pretty much necessary since there is little relief in sight on the residential care bed front. Still, I could have used these vids during the long and lonely years….

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New beds old games

So the politicians came today, all shiny and smiley in their new suits, to announce 150 “new” long term care beds for the Comox Valley. Many of us wept at home afterwards, because the big contract went to yet another for profit elder care home chain,  “a good company,” enthused Minister Dix, who is not so great an actor as he thinks.

This in a valley where one care home is already under the control of the Chinese government due to events stemming from the corporate necessity to maximize profits. The board of directors of any company is not legally allowed to do otherwise, no matter how “good.”

Even more depressing, the Minister insisted these were “new beds” blithely and happily ignoring the fact that most of those beds, when built in 2 or 3 years, will be swiftly filled by the overflow waiting in the new acute care hospital, which has been overfilled since it opened.  It is planning disaster but no accountability in sight.

“I was in Abbotsford yesterday,” he gushed, “and their  hospital was at 120% capacity.” Not exactly sure how that does anything except reinforce the need for more long term care everywhere, but he seemed to think that changed the subject.


(Someone should do an audit on the plain old financial cost of all this nonsense, never mind the lost years, the lost lives of all this neglect and health care chaos. It must add up to hundreds of millions which could have given us the care we need.)

Another 30 of the 150 exciting new beds in the Comox Valley are basically  a book keeping move, because they already exist as “temporary” beds and are full.

It is all such a stupid old game, sweep into town like a feudal lord and announce great news – hey you get an extra ration on alternate fridays! smile for the camera you ingrates – which barely stanches the bleeding social wounds, and then denounce realists as those who just always reject good news.

Tonight I am sad and exhausted. And so tired. Tired of dealing with the lack of adequate care management at the foreign-owned care home in the Comox Valley. The licensing officer receives complaints almost every week – not from me – and nothing happens, nothing changes.

Tired of the struggle to save others from this dreadful waste of the last years of their lives on this sweet earth. Tired of looking for a drop of truth or sincerity in this pathetic democracy.

It is just a shell game and our lives as we work, and worse as we age, are the pawns to be conned and then thrown away.

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