The weeks around and following Thanksgiving Day were hard – some of the hardest so far. It started Thanksgiving Day, and by the end of an evening Zoom gathering with family, it was obvious something was seriously wrong. My sweetie “checked out” during the call, became unsettled and agitated. He decided to lie down on his bed, but within a few minutes was back up again. He thought my bedroom was the bathroom. It wasn’t pretty.
Later, while getting him ready for bed, he said he had a bad headache. When pressed, he said it had been there all day. Plus, he was coughing and sniffly. Yikes. He got progressively weaker as the night went on, and by early morning could not get out of bed. He couldn’t get on or off the toilet, brush his teeth, dress, undress – anything. It was a fretful long weekend awaiting the opportunity to get tested for COVID. It also meant sitting out Thanksgiving Dinner with our little pod.
COVID tests on Monday came back negative by Wednesday, but he was still so weak, so “puny.” He slept about 20 hours a day, and needed me to do everything for him. I gave him daytime cold pills after we got the negative results. That helped clear his headache and cough, but he was so weak. Nighttime cold medicine helped the first night, but then it caused extreme agitation, bad dreams, ugly hallucinations that he could not describe but that left him shaking and terrified.
After a few days of frustration and impatience on my part (I got mad at him for saying he was uncomfortable around my family – the ONLY people who can be fully present in our lives right now), I braced myself for this being the beginning of serious decline. I had to identify the things that would keep him engaged, or at least awake, a few hours a day. While getting him out and into the vehicle was a chore, it proved a positive activity. We would get out and drive around, looking at Christmas lights and such, enjoying a hot chocolate. Then home to dinner, which perked him up. He still enjoyed food, and would actually show enthusiasm at the mention of what I was making. That was good. He has lost weight, which is a concern. But he is holding his own. But again, Chucklebutt. Chucklebutt likes to tell John that he shouldn’t have something he enjoys, that he doesn’t deserve it. I can see it on his face and hear it in his voice when I offer him a treat.
The other, while we were driving home from dropping off Christmas treats for friends, he said “I need to figure out what I can do to be a productive member of society.” Those words were spoken more clearly than anything he has said in weeks. They also came with the unspoken sentiment that he felt he needed to earn a spot among the living in order to deserve even basic necessities. Thanks, Chucklebutt, ya Asshole.
How does one respond to such a comment? I talked a bit about the idea that as we age we aren’t expected to be as productive as we used to be. I reminded him that he was retired, and had been quite productive for many years, and had already earned the opportunity to be nonproductive. I finished by saying “You can still be a productive member of society by being the sweet, kind, generous and loving person you have always been. People feel good when you are around them, and that is a great thing, especially these days.” Then, with the most gregarious voice I have heard come out of him for many months, he said “Well! Wow!” And with that he was more engaged and attached than he had been in weeks. We had a nice dinner and played cards with family, and he did well playing cards. He showed a tweak of humor, even. He struggled with a few technical things, but managed with help.
Towards the end of the evening, I causally asked our family if they had seen the house burning on the way in from JC. We saw it as we were heading home from our drive (the fire was already advanced, so I assumed it had been called in and help was there or on the way). They had gone a different way, so had not seen it. Within minutes, John’s body was bent into a question mark, his voice choked and breathless, his face gaunt and haunted. Hello, Chucklebutt. What are you telling him now? Oh. That he should have “done something to help.” He had been in the Fire Brigade at his work. Somehow, that meant that he was responsible for the fire getting out of control, that he at least should have called the fire department. He just would not let it go, and could not get Chucklebutt off his back. I finally found an item on the local news that stated the fire was under control and no one had been hurt. He was instantly relieved, and we were able to enjoy one of our quiz shows before bed. And he slept all night – a first in weeks.
Lewy, Dewey and me 