Plucked

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash

Hope is a bitch.

Yeah, I know, it's also one of the great "things" (NIRV) that "abide" (NRSV).

But here's what I mean.  And if you're a fellow dementia carer you've had this experience.  After a couple of almost nonverbal days we'll have a conversation and it will seem like he is "back."  That is the bitchy part of hope, to throw that feeling of hope into my brain, that feeling that he's still there.  That sense of connection.  And then..well, he'll say something like, "Oh, you wrote a book?  What book is it?"    And while I've understood for two years that his short term memory is shot, still, after all the brou-ha-ha about the book in my life, such reminders can be painful.   The man I knew is gone and isn't coming back and this ancient child is what is left of him.  And I want to punch hope, that thing with feathers, in the nose.

Faith and love, however, are supportive, however, not a pain in the ass.  I still feel such love for him when he smiles, or does some household task, or hug him.  The soul in him I love (and that my "out of the everywhere into the here" soul chose before my birth, or so I have been told) and have loved since I first met him.  We've had many struggles but he had faith in my inner goodness, even during the years I was acting the "bad girl."  And his faith in me paid off...he has a loving caregiver and a home to stay in during this last strange inner journey. (Unlike my beloved Aunt Huldah Bell, who had to depend upon loving friends and family who didn't live with her.) And I have faith that the Great Mystery (a.k.a. "God") has been guiding my old sweetheart and me on our walk through the valley of the shadow.

I think I'd rather be without feathers.