I am grieving in pieces.
During my final months of pregnancy I was prone to Braxton
hicks contractions. Sometimes they were
so strong I felt I was actually in labour-
only to be later disappointed when they petered out. Other times, I was so uncomfortable I would
miss out on precious hours of sleep. It
seemed so futile and unnecessary to go through pain, sleeplessness and
hopefulness for a seemingly pointless outcome.
I rationalized to myself (and now continue to use this rationalization
with friends and patients who suffer the same existential Braxton hicks crises)
that the painful hours I put in were benefiting my cervix and somehow shortening
my TRUE labour. I took solace in
knowing that this pre-emptive discomfort would shave time off the discomfort
during labour.
I feel the same way about my grief.
Alzheimer’s has robbed my dad of almost all of what he was
both physically and mentally. He can
hardly walk, he has lost over 50 pounds and he can’t read or write or even
carry on a conversation. The strong,
witty, intellectual athlete that he was is all but depleted. What we have at this moment is a kind, sweet,
loving dad who longs for companionship but no longer has the skills or
capabilities to engage in meaningful relationships.
I still have my dad.
I still have his love and his recognition. For that I am eternally grateful.
Yesterday, driving into Collingwood from our old stomping
ground at Brewster Lake, Toby and I came to the crest of a high hill. A hill which, years ago, we used to take
regularly into town. A hill upon which,
regularly, my dad reiterated the same predictable line to us on, “WOAH!!!
Wow! Look at the view! WOW!!! Look at this HILL!!!” It was always a
mixture of awe at the view and terror for his life. He would CLING to the door handle as if his
life depended on it, forgetting that he had driven over this same crest of the
hill hundreds of times before and somehow, miraculously survived.
I had forgotten about this hill and was suddenly hit by a throat-choking
sob.
“What, Mom?” Toby asked perceptively,
“Oh, your Grandpa Boyd used to LOVE this hill. Remember how he would always remark about how
high it was and how beautiful the view was and then ask us when the heck we
were moving back to Toronto?”
Toby laughed as we reminisced and I forced myself to smile
and continue with feigned casualty as I rationalized with my sadness that I was
“keeping his memory alive”
That’s when it hit me how odd it was. To keep someone’s memory alive when they still, in fact, are. I was then gobsmacked and guilted by the
confusion of that thought. He wasn’t
gone, yet! But he wasn’t him anymore. Why had I forgotten that? Was it right to even think like this?
Moments like this happen all of the time. A memory, a sadness, a thought and then
confusion compounded with grief. Sometimes
I long for this to be simpler. Some days
I just want to grieve. What a terrible
thing to write for the obvious implications.
Living the Alzheimer’s decline means that we grieve in
pieces, with little repireves in between. We have
moments of grief and longing when we notice how much of him is missing. We have moments of joy when we walk into his room
and see that spark of love and recognition in his eyes. And we have these conflicts of guilt when we are
living in one emotion and not the other. I guess all there is to do is to hope for more moments of joy and that each "Braxton hicks" of grief that we
feel now will somehow lessen the inevitable blow that is yet to come.
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