Blanket of Love

When I declared til death us do part to my imminent husband, Allan, in September 1984, I meant it. I just never thought it would happen. It was theoretical. For the last two years of his life, knowing Al’s cruelly random Parkinson’s/Lewy Body dementia combo was terminal, it was still only theoretical. Now, his ashes, his earthly remains, rest under some ornamental orchids in my piano room. His handsome face grins at me from its A4 frame on my dresser. Seven months since his death, I'm just beginning to understand that it did actually happen.

 With Allan I was always securely wrapped in a blanket of love. That's what is missing now. I still have my health, even better with new cataract-free enhanced vision. I'm physically in great form. I have my intellect, my interests, my friendship groups and friends. But that love to come home to that was only ever a phone call away has gone. The memory of it remains and I'm hanging onto that but I can't have Al's love reaffirmed by his hug or his hand to hold.   

Oh, I'm very busy participating in my days: listen to another audiobook, the more unfathomable the plot in a Lynda La Plante or a Jack Reacher the better. Stops me ruminating.   Organise my recycling, bike-ride or walk somewhere, always with a shopping list in my back pocket. It's good to tick things off. Chat to whichever willing shopkeeper I can find. Over-share. Garden. French class, German class, choirs. Busy. Busy. Busy.

 This is what I'm doing every day. Trying to entertain myself and get through the next 24 hours. With luck I'll manage a few hours sleep, preferably during the night. If not, I'm learning heaps from podcasts.

 Seven months on, I'm missing Allan doing the little that he could still do: in the evenings, sitting on his kitchen chair, facing the TV, flicking through free-to-air. I miss him shuffling through to me in the lounge after dinner, interrupting my absorption in yet another unmissable series, asking if there was anything we could watch together. 'Do you mind if I just finish this episode?' I'd ask. He never did. After a while I'd call him and we'd watch something that would appeal to us both. It was always my choice. I knew what he liked.

 He'd sit at the corner of his couch at right angles to mine, so close that I could reach across and briefly - as long as I could stand it - hold his icy hand. In all but the hottest weather, he'd be wearing a beanie, windcheater and puffer jacket to combat his cold sweats, a symptom of his Lewy Body dementia. He'd sit leaning forward, the pain and deformity in his back preventing him from reclining against the cushions.

 Throughout his illness, he only 'lost it' a couple of times. The first was when the GP told him he could no longer drive. Standing next to me at the kitchen sink, in reply to my asking if he was all right, he said, 'I'm absolutely gutted.' There was nothing I could say. The fact that I'd been doing all the driving since the previous Christmas when it became obvious that he was too vague and slow to be trusted behind the wheel was irrelevant. At least he'd known that if he wanted to he could.

The next time he expressed despair about his illness was the following year, maybe 12 months later. It was after 10 pm or so. Bed time. Time to clean teeth and retire for the night. TV was off. We'd had our drinks and customary squares of dark chocolate, our evening treat after we both quit alcohol a couple of years earlier. It should have been a cosy time but it never was while Allan had that illness. Every day was imbued with my fear of what would happen next. We hadn't yet stood up when I noticed Allan's face, so sad as he leaned forward and stared into the corner.  'Allan, what's wrong?' Well, what wasn't wrong? but we say these things. 'I'm just thinking depressing thoughts about life, the universe and everything,' he said heavily. I went to sit and hold him and reassure him that we were coping. Practically we were. But emotionally it was torture. Allan rarely said anything other than to express that through it all, he was just worried about me having to do everything because he was no longer able . He worried about me having to go on without him. Typically, I'd joke at this stage. 'Don't worry about me,' I'd say over his shoulder, because inevitably he'd be holding onto me. 'I'll be heading off to Europe with your money.'  Which is exactly what I'm doing.

 But at the end of the day - at the end of every day - I'm so sad and lonely without him. I had 45 years safe in that blanket of love.

Flipping Sadness

Writing has been a bit of a struggle lately. Handwriting has gradually disappeared down a trigger-fingered carpal tunnel. Two-fingered tapping on an iPad doesn't quite cleanse my chi. However, I subverted my reaction to a funeral the other day and maybe that's worth sharing.

 A dear friend's 90-something mother recently died a worthy death: relatively well; cognition intact; dementia free; loved. It's too easy for me to absorb grief. Recognising this, I avoid it if I can. Daily I balance on a treacherous tightrope below which is a potentially fathomless pit of awfulness in which I'd rather not wallow*. I choose to keep my head up; find joy where I can. But my love of my friend outweighed my need to protect myself. I needed to offer what support I could, by being there as she finds her own way through the maze of grief.

 

It was an afternoon funeral on a blustery but fine winter's day. I was mindful of the funeral as soon as I opened my eyes that morning.  I didn’t want death to dominate my day with its sadness. So I busied myself with the usual morning housekeeping and shopping. After lunch, watching the minutes drag their feet towards funeral time, I google-mapped the address and saw it would take me 15 minutes in heavy end-of-term-school-pick-up traffic to drive the 6.3k to the church. Six point three kilometres? That's a very do-able bike ride. I snapped into action deciding I'd ride the push bike, despite the gusts from the north into which I’d be pedalling.

 

Suddenly it wasn’t about a sad friend whose mum had died but about getting out in the fresh air and being on an adventure. I had a scant 45 minutes. I knew I'd be stepping hard on the pedals, despite Google maps' prediction that the ride would take 26 minutes. Clearly they've never clocked this old woman on her bike. I was wearing a few mostly black funereal layers against Melbourne's 12 degrees minus 5 for wind-chill factor.  It was cold. Thusly, I topped the lot off with my varicoloured wind-breaker jacket. Maybe I should mention that my bike helmet sports four erect cable ties, attached to prevent me from getting hit by swooping magpies during their mating season. It isn’t their mating season.

 

Several kilometres later I was over-heating, unzipping layers, pumping past Fawkner cemetery on the Upfield Bike trail.  By the time I reached Box Forest Road I wasn’t sure which way to head and Google maps wasn't helping, given it's hard to turn hither and thither when you factor in a busy eight-lane dual carriageway and a railway line. On the other side of Sydney Road I asked a couple of busy men at a car wash whether they knew the location of the Greek Orthodox Church. ‘I no speak English. You ask next door. He speak good English.’ I was already late so didn’t but cycled along the footpath in that direction. A pedestrian further along was able to help. ‘There’s a Greek church just up the road where those cars are coming out’ 'Thanks, have a nice day!' And lo and behold, the iconic church, startlingly conspicuous when you’re driving on the highway. Not so much from the Upfield Rail Trail.

 

A mere ten minutes late, having locked my bike,  I shed my plastic clown jacket and baseball cap, slid open the heavy church door and crept on the balls of my feet into a back pew. Heart pounding, I was exhilarated.

 

I breathed deeply adjusting to the darkness of a church filled with sombre people. From the back pew I saw only backs of heads, and shoulders under dark clothes. I'd avoided disturbing the atmosphere when I'd arrived late. Not so the man who came in a bit later wearing trainers that squelched on each step. He made no attempt to prevent the sound, but he was groaningly old, perhaps deaf and oblivious to the sounds he was emitting. Good that he made it, bless.

 

My friend spoke eloquently about her beautiful mum. Her restrained emotion nearly undid me but I bit back on it. I'm sick of crying. It doesn't release any healing for me; just makes me feel wretched in its aftermath. It was a long service. They did this ritual, kind of like a communion. (It's all Greek to me.) A church attendant indicated to each row that they could proceed to the altar and file past the coffin. I assumed it was a coffin. I was too far away to be able to see through my cataracts. I remained safe in my pew. This process, like communion, took a while and as people returned to their pews I recognised some of my former colleagues. Secondary teachers, they may have had mixed feelings: a melange of sadness and end-of-term relief at a Friday afternoon off for a funeral.

 

At the end of the service the priest invited the congregation to join the cortege and proceed to Northern Memorial Park off Box Forest Road. This is where my day really tumble-turned, filling me with illicit repressed mirth. My friend and her family were already in a stretch limousine with blacked out windows. In front was the hearse, now with its coffin in place ready to lead the cortege. I didn't want to be inappropriate but had to tiptoe through the rose beds to unlock my bike. I was also obliged to put on my very conspicuous raincoat. I may as well have stuck  on a red nose. I set off up Sydney Road to cross the eight lanes at the lights. Unavoidably, I raced the cortege while riding on the footpath, somehow hoping I wouldn't disturb their grief yet simultaneously more conspicuous than an kangaroo hopping along beside a slow moving train. Even more so when the cortege blocked the left lane - a bus was inadvertently caught in the convoy of mourners. At a break in the oncoming traffic I opportunistically signalled and turned right in front of the hearse.

 

Inside the cemetery I tried to hang back a bit, nevertheless catching up with the hearse and stretch limo. I retreated behind a ghost gum and waited until they took off and I almost lost them. No matter.  Glimpsing distant cars, I short-cut through some graves and again got in the way, standing out like, well, a clown at a funeral.  Suppose I could have dumped the bike and my colourful jacket and braved the cold. As a mark of respect I removed my four-pronged bike helmet.

 

I waited at the end of the row of graves while my friend's beloved mum was lowered to her eternal rest. I still didn't want to get within crying range. Yet, with my bike I felt intrusive. To counter this, I clasped my hands in front and bowed my head a little. Minutes later, the berobed Greek Orthodox priest returned through the crowd of mourners. Seeing me, his face lit up with a smile as he gave me a brief salute. Perhaps I brought a bit of brightness to his day. Hope so.

 

*Al, my beautiful basketballer, cyclist, champion, husband, constant companion of 45 years is seeing out his days with a hideous combo of Parkinson's Disease and Lewy Body dementia.