Me: Do you remember that trip to Balingup?
Anthony: And the oysters?
Me: Yes.
Anthony: I’ll never forget it.
Me: I’ll never forget it either. You were mobile and you easily walked out of the nursing home, and we easily got you into the car, and I easily drove you back through time to the place of your childhood.
Anthony: And the old pub, all done up.
Me: And it was a beautiful day.
Anthony: You were in a hurry.
Me: Yeah, but only because if I didn’t get you there soon enough – at least by noon – the timing might not work, the pills might not kick in, you might get that nervous constipation thing, or worse….
Anthony: Worse?
Me: The opposite.
Anthony: Oh you mean my penchant for pooing unexpectedly?
Me: Yeah, that and the whole panic thing, for me, and Ming too. You know like that time in the restaurant where Ming had to take you to the toilet and figure it out, and that other time – OMG – after the funeral when your nephew had to figure it out….
Anthony: Sorry about that, Jules. We didn’t know about adult nappies then did we – wonderful invention.
Me: I was always amazed by your lack of embarrassment – like you just took it all in your stride!
Anthony: What else could I do? My bowels stopped belonging to me.
Me: You see, that’s one of the things I most admire about you – the way you accepted it all. I would be dying of embarrassment for you and yet you’d always be so sort of ….
Anthony: Philosophical?
Me: Yes!
Anthony: And the point of this conversation is…?
Me: Oh, sorry, our back to Balingup outing. So it was only an hour’s drive but you began to visibly falter about ten minutes before I parked the car at the pub so I was doubtful as to whether I’d be able to get you out of the car and into the restaurant.
Anthony: You were so weak.
Me: What do you mean I was so weak? You were like a dead weight! I couldn’t even move you enough to get the stupid seat-belt off, and when I finally did, I couldn’t get your legs around enough to get you even close to getting out of the car, and when I finally did, I couldn’t get you to stand up, even with the walker.
Anthony: I kept wondering why you couldn’t do it.
Me: How could you not know how bloody heavy you were?
Anthony: Because I didn’t feel heavy to me? I was skinny.
Me: Argh, that again – always so proud of your washboards? You were teensy in the end – diminished!
Anthony: You want to say “pathetic” don’t you.
Me: What?
Anthony: I was pathetic. I know that now.
Me: Okay, you were pathetic, yes, but you were also heroic, and I wanted to take you to Balingup for lunch and such a simple thing became a kind of nightmare. When I couldn’t even get you out of the car, I rushed in to see if they might bring the food out to us and they said yes! And they even had oysters – fresh oysters – and I ordered two dozen.
Anthony: An unexpected delight….
Me: And you vacuumed down the first dozen so I rushed back in to ask for another dozen and they got served to the car!
Anthony: You’re a champion, Jules.
Me: Seeing you eat those oysters, and not having a toilet issue, equalled pure joy, Ants. And then, all of a sudden, it became urgent to get you back to the nursing home and all you wanted to do was stay in Balingup.
Anthony: I’ve never seen that trip back from your perspective until now.
Me: I was freaking out because you were slumping so badly and I was worried we’d overdone it. Plus how the hell was I going to get you out of the car and back into the nursing home when you were almost comatose on the way back?
Anthony: But you did it – we did it.
Me: Yes but at the time all I wanted to do was get away from you and the nursing home and get home and just be by myself, away from the horror of your incapacity, away from the bittersweet day, away from the overwhelming love-guilt I had for you.
Anthony: My memory is different; it was a wonderful day.
Me: Yes but it was also final, Ants.
Anthony: How so?
Me: Well, I didn’t know it then but it was the last time I ever took you out and I am so so sorry for this.
Anthony: Please don’t cry, Jules. I wouldn’t have bothered to take me out in the first place.
jmgoyder 
Julie, reading this made me teary. It reminded me of some of my “last” outings with my mother. I had similar anxiety and fears. When i eat at the restaurants where we used to go, I remember those bathroom situations with embarrassment and sadness.
I think this must be a way of processing our grief – balancing the memories of the stronger person with the decline, when our grief began.
Up and out – I think this is a beautiful example of letting go of the pain, but remembering the joy Ants had eating those oysters. I remember my mom’s joy of going out with me, even though it was so difficult at times.
Memories . . .
Sending you a big hug and I do see you are making a lot of progress toward healing. Tears do not mean you’ve slipped. You are still moving forward and remembering.
You are one amazing friend Judy!
What is weird, is I remember this when you wrote about this outing. It is as if we are sharing this memory. I thought that was a wonderful gesture to take Anthony out to the pub and eat his favourite things. You have photos, too! I have done things with patients in home care that I may have gotten fired for, but I do not regret it one bit. For instance, using a lift to lower this woman into her three wheel motorcycle while her neighbour drove the bike to the coffee shop. I followed in my car. She had such a big grin on her face the whole time. It was worth it to make the effort..
Oh how wonderful Jane!
Sweet and difficult memory.
Sounds like it was a good outing and one to remember
I share your sadness and envy you your memories.