I started writing this blog as a kind of desperate move, realising that I probably never would get around to writing the book I had been carefully keeping notes toward. Now it has turned into a therapeutic exercise for me, and I feel comforted in knowing that many people are reading this and, in that way, keeping me company as this story unfolds, to its inevitable bleak end.
Also, before I figured out how to get Seniors Health (VIHA) more heavily engaged in our problem, and before I found the great caregiver help I have now, thanks to the CSIL program, I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself. I thought the partners of those with dementia were expected to just bury themselves alive with their dying spouses, a kind of living “sati.”
But enough of this — I am doing what writers tend to do best, “not writing” about last night’s episode.
After a rather challenging day, including several hours spent at Emerg (good news – no problem), Don went to sleep at about 10.
I stayed up for awhile and was just at the sink, tidying up the kitchen, when I heard a loud “crack.” I turned around to see my love, standing with his walking stick upraised ready to swing again. I cried, “Stop, Don. Stop. It’s Delores, I am Delores,” but for many seconds there was no recognition in his eyes. Then, slowly, there was puzzlement, and then, he lowered the stick.
I took a deep breath and we went to bed.
Accidents happen to people all the time, but this morning, I realize that I could easily not be here today, comfortably blogging about this close call.