Monthly Archives: December 2015


A whispering in the night, somewhat disturbed. I lean over and stroke his cheek and say “It is all right” and he subsides.

A hand holds mine and he whispers “love you.”

Later whispering passionately, “I don’t want to leave you.”

I roll to him and say quite emphatically, it being 4 in the mornng, “So Don’t!”

“Oh!” he says, relieved. And we fall asleep holding hands.


All that sweet and true psychic state is one level of existence, but life works on many levels, and so does truth as we humans experience it.

I had spent the two days before he returned from the Lodge – where as before he fit in,  made friends, did the activities, was his sweet self with the other patients – I had spent those days in fear and tears, dreading his return.

Having survived that inevitable doom, I spent the next week digging into the placement system to see how bad my fate was. I was pretty serious about a drop off at emergency and a quick flight out to wherever , if my sentence looked to be more than a couple of months. That was the optimist in me trying to imagine a better future.

Anyway, tonight it seems I am making some progress on deciphering the care system. It is going to take more research to sort it out and I will post when I actually have some information.


Quote of the week:

Me – to the “more information” person about residential care – “I just am trying to figure out how many people are on the list for placement.”

She: “There’s no list….”

I will spare you the ensueing round and round the mulberry bush, but it ended with me saying …Oh you are telling me there is no bed shortage and all those folks on the Second Floor (St Joseph’s Transition ward), there are beds for all those folks right now?

She hung up on me, but what could she do — we had just boldly ventured beyond her talking points.

Duh!!!! Of course there’s no list. If there was a list we the public would be able to see how bad this health care crisis is.




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Positive relations but a twist on the road

After an overall easy day, with little going on. The caregiver, right on the ball, actually coaxed Don out for ice cream. Things got a bit touchy for awhile after they came back but settled down with some lame but successful diversion.

We heard him say “Hi” quite happily to the guy in the mirror.

I knew we were fine when, as I started to dish out dinner, Don suggested haltingly that it would be nice if we filled a plate for that fella in there (nodding at the bathroom).

Oh, I said, thinking fast, I think if he wants supper he should come and sit at the table with the rest of us.

But the harmony was not to last. As I was writing this post, I had to stop, due to the familiar but increasingly urgent refrains of Let’s go, I want to go home, Where’s the car, etc.

By the time we got to bed, Don was literally jumping up and down in and out of bed, saying, I have to go, I have to go talk with Delores. I tried everything, but it took three hours and several pills to settle him down.

I haven’t seen that level of delusion and aggressiveness in a few months. Sigh.




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A Positive ID

Thrre’s been a lot of weird characters rummaging through our house lately, some of them pretty hard to pin down.

The dog lurking in the corner where the white stool sits is easy pickings. The one that runs across the counter or over the table is a little harder to explain, so best not bother.

The children playing just on the edges of vision, or laughing around the corner, are benign visitations.

But there has been this man…a few weeks ago the object of fearful whispering, much hushing and creeping around corners. Lately the man has been accepted as a casual visitor while Don asks : “What did he say to you – I know you were talking” -brushing aside my protestations of ignorance.

And it turns out, no wonder. I heard a long and cheerful conversation in the bathroom, and was somewhat startled but pleased when Don reported happily that, “I asked that guy but he doesn’t want any breakfast. “

Oh-kay. But the next day the mystery broke when Don pulled me into the bathroom, cannily staying around the corner, but certain I could catch a look at “that fellow.” Identity confirmed when I coaxed him around the corner for a quick look in the mirror.

This however doesn’t make my love any easier about using the bathroom when “That fella’s there again.”

And then there’s Sam.

“Sam!!! There you are! – I have been looking everywhere for you. I am so happy you came back.” Wondering vaguely what new linguistic failing led to “Sam” but really having a 100 other things to juggle,  I gave myself into his joyous embrace, while wondering if dinner would coax him into eating.

Later  as he helped cook by stirring up some flour, he asked, “Did you say one of our daughters wasn’t coming?” And I realised suddenly that “Sam” rhymed with the name of his first wife and mother of his children, his love not forgotten in this haze of memories.


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C’mon babe, Let’s go

Over and over and over. “I want to go home. C’mon babe, let’s go.”

This had been going on for 3 hours – we had gone for a drive, perhaps foolishly, twice, because I hoped the foul weather and the motion would break the pattern.

I should have known better. “I want to go home,” He wailed over and over. He would look around our house and recognise it as ours for a moment and then say well, that’s fine, but I want to go home.

C’mon babe,  let’s go. Tugging at me, hugging me and caressing me, ready to crush me and my chair,  sometimes demanding to know what was wrong with me  – was i mad? Worthy of temporary pity? Did I really want to push him away from me? –

C’mon babe, let’s go. What do we need to take?  C’mon babe.

I wept and wept and finally smarten ed up and gave him enough medication.

After it took effect, and between dogs and strange men running through the room, he kissed my hand, and said, Thank you, babe.


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