Another Wave of Grief in Dementiaville

Another wave of grief hit me about two weeks ago. Grief over losing Romeo to dementia. Grief again. It came out of nowhere, out of nothing. I was going about my days, with purpose and content, satisfied with life. Happy much of the time. Then, without warning, it hit. Another damn wave of grief.

The wave stayed for nearly the entire two weeks. It pounded me much of that time. I was at least tearful if not actually crying the whole time. Damn wave.

When a wave hits me, it begins with tears. Sometimes I have no idea why a wave hits, unannounced. Here's the typical scenario: I'm doing a chore around the house, or I'm driving, or I'm out and about doing errands or any number of unexciting, pleasant things. A wave can hit immediately after I've visited Romeo, but usually not. It prefers to get me when I'm not looking. Damn waves.

I usually don't know why I begin to cry. I don't automatically assume that I'm grieving for Romeo, just in case there's something else deserving of my tears. But there isn't. Things are going well in the other areas of my life. For as much sadness and grief I experience over Romeo, there is even more happiness and joy in my ordinary days. So I'm grieving for Romeo, for our lost life together. Damn waves of grief.

My grief then turns me toward thoughts of Romeo. I think of him every day, of course. When I'm not in grief, these thoughts have pleasant emotions attached to them. I'll recall something funny he said, or remember holding his hand on one of our walks, or think about one of the many times we went out for tea. In contrast, when I'm in grief, my thoughts of Romeo take a sad turn. The emotions with them wail their presence, and that, in turn, causes the floodgate to open, and there seems to be no end to my tears. And that is exactly how it is with this current wave.

Okay. So crying is one of my typical behaviors in grieving. Duh. My other dominant characteristic in grief behavior is that I become stuck energetically. There are toilets to be cleaned, floors to be vacuumed, a blog to write, a drum to be played, laundry to be done. Do I do any of it while I'm grieving? Hardly. Instead, I sit and stare at the wall. I sit and stare at the computer screen. I sit and stare at my latest art projects, at the dishes in the sink ready for the dishwasher, at the piles of paper on my desk, at the books on my nightstand waiting to be read. I do nothing else. I sit. I sit and stare. And oh yes, I drum. I can always bring myself to drum. But more about that in some other post (or not).

I'd like to think that during this time of blocked energy the grief processing is happening below the surface, where I can't quite sense it. And so I surrender to the grief and let myself sink as deeply as I need to sink.

Big Blue Eyes in Dementiaville

It's late afternoon. Romeo and I chit-chat. We are in his room. He is sitting up in bed, and I am in a chair borrowed from the ice cream parlor in the building (there is a shortage of chairs for visitors).

We sip on our usual drinks -- steamed soy milk with sugar-free hazelnut flavoring, light foam. Romeo asks for a cookie. I open the drawer in his nightstand that contains his goodie stash and choose two European-style biscuits covered with dark chocolate. I feed him a bite of cookie, then a drink of the soy milk. He can no longer feed himself or lift a drink to his mouth, so I do this for him. He happily munches the cookie and drinks the soy milk through a straw.

We talk about the weather, the food in the nursing home, his cold symptoms (a new development), what's going on with the people we know, the routines of everyday life. This time, it's a pleasant visit. He doesn't complain about situations that his dementia has imagined, twisted, or embellished. There are no stories for me to check on with his nurse or other staff members. He doesn't cry, he is not frustrated or agitated. He is relaxed, content, peaceful. This, in turn, makes me relaxed, content, peaceful. He is fine. And because he is fine, I am fine.

When Romeo finishes his cookies and soy milk, he asks to lie down. I clear his bed tray, move it back to its place against the wall, and go through the routine of adjusting his bed so he is lying down. I lean over and give him a kiss. I back away from him and say good-bye. He smiles and says, "I love you." I reply in kind, and we kiss again. I turn and head out of the room. Nearly to the door, I turn around and see him -- his eyes, bluer and larger than ever -- looking at me with such love and innocence and trust. I sigh, drinking in his essence -- this strong, unconditional love he offers to me freely -- and wonder if he can feel me giving the same to him.