Anthony and I exchange I love you as if we are some sort of romantically tragic play that never reaches its denoument.
But the other night on the phone the script shifted, rustling the worn paragraphs of our repetitive goodnight conversation.
Me: I love you.
Anthony: You’re the only one left.
That shocked me a bit, but he didn’t say it self-pityingly at all; he said it with certainty, like a simple fact.
Anthony’s recent shift from despondency to humour has been gradual, subtle, under-stated, whereas my inexplicable shift from sad to happy has been sudden and boisterous.
I know that part of these shifts are to do with our mutual acceptance of the reality of our situation but, if so, why didn’t we accept this months ago?
Oh who cares why – we are happy again!
Anthony has always been really good at encapsulating what would take me paragraphs to describe. And, in between the worsening mumblingishness of his speech, he comes out with extraordinary witticisms.
This afternoon, for instance, we were drinking red wine and watching an appallingly good soap opera on TV when the guy in the next room (I’ll call him John for anonymity) accidentally walked in.
I see Anthony’s eyes, usually expressionless, harden. So I get up and gently steer John back into the hallway where a nurse takes his arm and tells him she has made a cup of tea. He looks back at me and says, Tomorrow we gistust this potatoes worry, okay?
Leaping back into Anthony’s room (before he drinks my wine!) I ask him about John.
What do you do when he comes into your room and disturbs you? I ask.
He looks at me really seriously and quietly says, PANIC!
I laugh so loud that a nurse comes in, worried that I am upset about the John incident. I tell her what Ants said and she guffaws too.
As I am leaving, I hug my husband and he whispers in my ear, I am making people laugh again, Jules!
So you’ve stopped the grumpy thing? I ask, hopefully (knowing that my gentle man has become uncharacteristically cantankerous lately).
But in just these few minutes of saying goodbye, he has gone somewhere and there is no point trying to follow him.
So I go to where my sobs won’t be heard – the disabled toilet near the exit from the nursing lodge – then I wash my face, put my lipstick back on, and go back to say seeya to Ants.
Panic.
This afternoon, Ants and I sat out in the sun, on the beach side of the nursing lodge, then went for a short walk up the rather steep driveway so we could catch a glimpse of the ocean.
To give you an idea of how exhausting this was for Ants, the distance up to the crest is about 15 – 20 ordinary strides. Anthony uses a walker of course, but can barely lift his feet so, for him, the distance to the crest was well over 100 shuffled steps, then back down again. Once inside, I could barely get him back to the armchair in his room and thought I’d have to get the wheelchair, but we made it.
Getting him to turn around, let go of the walker and sit in the chair took ages, and I finally used all my strength to sort of hoist him around and plonk him down. This left us both gasping and I got the giggles.
– I bet the nurses are much gentler with you, I said.
– But with you, there are sexual overtones, he said with a hint of a smile.
– For God’s sake, Ants, are you crazy? I yelped.
– Then why are you blushing?
I can assure you, I was not blushing!
Silence is not always golden – it can be a lead, dead weight.
At the nursing lodge, I am learning, with restless determination, how to sit in silence with Ants who is beginning to forget how to talk, to form sentences/words.
So what do I do? I talk frenetically, I throw myself around his room, recharge his phone, make sure his airconditioner is onto heat, turn the TV onto ABC, put the new heatpads into his slippers, hug and kiss him. Sometimes I am there for a few hours, sometimes just a few minutes; if I can’t get into town, I eventually get him on the phone.
His silence on the phone, and in person, is sometimes deafening.
The other day, when Anthony was home for lunch and the afternoon, and Ming and I were trying to get the living room warm enough for him, I became a bit impatient. We had a roaring fire going, a heater on, and two blankets on his knees, but he was still shivering with cold in a room so hot that I was soaked with perspiration.
– Your thermostat’s had the bomb, Ants! I accidentally sort of yelled this as I was wrapping the stupid blankets under and around his feet.
– Mum, don’t be such a bitch! Yes, that came from Ming of course.
– Ants, can you tell Ming not to ever again call me a bitch?
And then Anthony said very clearly, I think, that in this context, it’s acceptable.
Shared laughter immediately thrilled its way through that hot room!
Anthony’s Parkinsonism symptoms include difficulty in swallowing but, so far, he is still able to half-manage normal, rather than mushed meals. However, his appetite is diminished and he has a dribbling problem.
Recently I have been going into the nursing lodge in the late mornings so that I can help him with his lunch. The lunch meal is always huge and often a roast, and is delicious. Ants only ever eats half of it, so I secretly gobble the rest with a separate spoon or fork.
– Use my fork, he says.
– I’m not particularly keen on your saliva, I say.
– One more mouthful, he says.
– So you want me to actually feed you?
– Erotic, he says without hesitation, and I crack up laughing.
I wonder what’s on the menu tomorrow.
Atop my shoulder
This beautiful little friend
My teenage peacock
[Many thanks to Samantha for this photo of G9 yesterday].
It seems indecent to feel, or worse embrace, joy, when your loved one is disappearing.
But joy is clever; it sneaks into the mud of your sorrow and explodes it away in rainbowish sparkles.
It is nearly 35 years since I, rather transparently, fell in love with Anthony and he kept his reciprocal feelings secret (I was, after all, still a teenager and he was over 40).
I think of what we had, what we endured, what we celebrated, and what we have now, as a big kind of love – huge, inviolable, but feather-light, a joy.
I have never felt so sad.
I have never felt so happy.
Joy.
Anthony.
Just checking in halfway through my blogbreak. Thanks to all for comments on last few posts – I really appreciate it and had intended to reply, sorry!
I’ve temporarily unsubscribed from most blogs to give myself a break, but will get back eventually I hope.
It’s just that I am so sad at the moment, about Anthony, because of how fast the dementia is happening now.
Ming, Gutsy9 and I are all fine which somehow seems wrong. I miss Anthony so much.
jmgoyder 