Missing Romeo and Coffee Shops in Dementiaville

The past week or so has been hard on me. Well, okay, nearly my entire life with Romeo has been hard on me. The difficulties simply change. The newest development involves crying...again. And once again, I find myself trying to figure out what it's about this time around.

Sometimes I can associate a series of crying bouts with what's happening currently with Romeo's progression of dementia. Other times, it isn't so clear. Sometimes I never figure out what it is. I don't think it matters so much, really. What matters is that I don't hold it in, that I meet it head-on, that I let the crying come, and that I trust it will cleanse me. It always does.

Several times this past week I found myself in a bookstore having a hot drink, relaxing and actually reading a book, something I love to do but have done little of in the past year. I wanted the quiet time, alone, to be anonymous to people around me. I sought out the time and the place and the mood. I felt relaxed. What a concept -- me, relax? On purpose? Nice.

Toward the end of each of my coffee shop visits this week, I looked up, half expecting to see Romeo seated across from me, his nose buried in his latest reading treasure, the concentration and pleasure animating his features. But of course, Romeo wasn't there. He wasn't across the table from me. He's in a nursing home.

I thought about the nearly daily visits Romeo and I would make to bookstores and coffee shops. He enjoyed this so much, and I loved it because he did, because he was happy, and I loved to make him happy. It seemed to take so little to please him then. I gave him everything I could of what he wanted. I still do, often going out of my way. He can do so little for himself. I want to give him the world, the universe.

After each of my recent coffee shop visits, when it was time to go home, I would look at my empty cup, close my book, survey the other people in the coffee shop, and pack up my things. This happened with each coffee shop visit this week. After each visit, there were tears in my eyes. I stifled the urge for a full, blown-out good crying session. I drove home, still fighting that urge, holding it at bay until I arrived home safely, parked the car in the garage, waited in a daze for the garage door to close, and made my way into the protection of sanctuary, of home. Each time, I cried until there were no more tears, again.

You'd think that I'd want to stay away from bookstores and coffee shops, but I feel drawn to them now. It's bringing up stuff for me to clear. It doesn't look like I'll stop doing this, at least not until I'm done, whenever that will be.