Breaking and Entering
After such a long dry spell, it’s a bit like breaking and entering to write here.
my writing cabin, around the time of my last post
On September 1, Bruce’s and my 40th anniversary, I tried to write a post to update you about my journey, but after I drafted it, I couldn’t bring myself to hit “publish.” Today, though I have some announcements or could write a review, it doesn’t seem fair to not share what’s been going on. Especially after taking a look at earlier posts, and your generous and encouraging comments.
So, here goes.
After three EMS (emergency services) visits to our house in two days, on the evening of August 4 my husband was admitted to the hospital for observation. From there it was decided that he was not safe at our house and must move to a care home. (Not quite that simple, as a return to the hospital for a second full week became necessary.) He does not believe there is anything wrong with him, mentally or physically, so the transfers from place to place were…rocky. I’ve had other hard times, but those were times when I had a partner to weather them with me. These past six weeks have been the most emotionally tumultuous of my life.
What precipitated them was my husband’s decision in mid-July to install a new toilet in the small bathroom adjoining the master bedroom. My efforts to dissuade him came to nothing.
He found a toilet for $15 at the Habitat for Humanity store. When he brought it home, I tried to tell him he couldn’t do it, but we could hire a plumber. He insisted that it’s a job he’s done many times in the past, and of course he could do it easily. One of our daughters said, “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll help him.” Mid-way through, she had no idea how to proceed (and could see that he hadn’t either), and a family friend was called. He came over immediately and helped set the toilet in place. My husband, however, wasn’t satisfied. It didn’t “look right.” For the next two weeks he proceeded to destroy the bathroom. Complicated to explain, but one result was a serious leak. The other result was that he fell apart, hence the 911 calls. I’m pretty sure that this year I have met every EMT in South Snohomish County.
Lynndale Park trail
On September 1, the aforementioned anniversary, a mitigation company crew spent two hours tearing up the flooring in the bathroom. The next day they returned to pull out the flange, wallboard, and shower. Also the ceiling and some wallboard downstairs. We were referred to a local contractor, and they helped us with an insurance claim, which was successful. Every step of this has been new territory for me, on a steep, uphill path. If I hadn’t had good friends calling me morning and night, “This is a welfare check,” I’m not sure I would have survived.
What seems clear is that this is a new chapter, for my husband and for me. Frankly, I’m still not sure what the book is about. Whatever our marriage was these past five or six years of decline—and sometimes it was good—this has been freakishly hard.
The big task ahead of me is, well, to grieve, but also to let go of the guilt and shame I’ve been feeling. My husband, who did not want me to take care of him, not even small things like helping with medications, is now receiving an appropriate level of care; he is in a clean, orderly place with activities and walking paths and a private bedroom with 1/2 bath (and no tools).
Side note: If you are young enough, invest in long-term care insurance now; I wish we had.
Bruce, on move-in day (his three daughters and two of their boyfriends moved furniture and decorated for him, and two were there to greet him)
I am happy to report that, after three weeks of being in one place, Bruce is acting somewhat settled. Our daughters, his older brother, and I have visited him. Things are feeling a little more doable.
Yes, I am still writing. Maybe not “finishing” work, but scribbling plenty. In fact, I have a new review posted at Escape Into Life. (Click on the link to go there.)
Also, I have a new freedom to get out of the house and do readings (no “dad-sitters” to negotiate). Thus I have a reading on October 9 at Eagle Harbor Books on Bainbridge Island, and would of course love to see you there.
I’ll share one title I’ve been reading: Art Heals. (Shaun McNiff).
Thank you for hanging in there with me.
I applaud your honest vulnerability Bethany, such a difficult transition. Glad you have had family and friends, who are also our insurance, and that life is settling for you now. Best wishes to you.
I’m coming in late, regretting that I had no idea about your challenges, Bethany. Sending you best wishes. I’m sure I’m not alone in the gratitude I feel that you are sharing your journey.
You remind me how important one’s tribe is, especially when the going gets tough. And though I’m relieved to be living in Canada now, I’m so missing my tribe.
My poet friends have been stellar—and I appreciate everyone who chimed in here. It makes me feel less alone. And a good reason to tell the truth about our lives.
Bethany, I am so sorry that you have had so much to manage. I’m watching my mom manage a similar challenge, and I am as worried for her as I am for my dad. (I understand your reticence to write publicly about all of it. I feel disloyal just writing that previous sentence, even as I know we’d be better off in writing and speaking openly about dementia.) I hope you’re both going to be in a better place going forward, and I’m glad you’re going to be able to reconnect with your literary community.
Bethany:
Tough times, indeed.
Thank you for your candor. Thank you for sharing your journey.
Many blessings,
Francine
After sitting here ruminating about the path you have trudged I realize I have nothing of use to say but hold your course, stay your sail and know you are loved by many.
Paul
What challenges you’ve had! Thank you for sharing the back story of your days. I’m glad that things are somewhat settled for you, enough so that you can focus on yourself as well as your husband. Blessings!
My intention is to blog once a week (but apparently not this week), so I’ll be back with more. Before that, I want to tell you all how much I appreciate these comments, and the emails I’ve received. As one friend said, “This is life on planet earth.” Was it Aristotle who said (something like), we write as if to say, this is what the struggle to be human has been like for me; what has it been like for you?
Thanks for caring about me and my journey.
“Freakishly hard” was also my experience. I am glad you have shared this with all of us who love to read whatever you write. Your work is abundant with insight. Be patient and kind to yourself, my friend.
Thank you for this. Maybe I need to write “be kind to Bethany” on a slip of paper and post it where I’ll bump into it.
Dear Bethany,
What struggles you have been swept into, such long turmoil that I could feel in the deconstruction of intimate space, a bathroom, with the end of a husband’s dream of side by side companionship. A mitigation company called in on your anniversary, “tearing up the flooring in the bathroom. The next day they returned to pull out the flange, wallboard, and shower. Also the ceiling and some wallboard downstairs.” What raw drama, with props.
Having been through the dementia of my own husband, as well, I hold hand over heart in prayer. I add the wish for more peace, even in the grief of unsettled loss.