Dear Michael,
It’s about time I tell you what I
think of you. I’ve been talking about you with others, and it’s past time to
say it to your face.
This is not about your sense of
humor, your collections, or your creativity. It’s about your brave conduct as
your partner of 35 years declined, from your soul mate to a manageable concern
to a 24-hour caretaking job. This is about how your expectation of retirement
companionship deteriorated to silent meals and bathroom supervision.
What I want to speak of is your
unwavering love and devotion. Your resilience. Your composure, most of the
time. Your acceptance, without hope. Your management of your own frustration
and disappointment.
When Gregory became confused
about dressing, you labeled, and later, laid out his clothes. When he couldn’t
figure out how to plug in his shaver, you put arrows on the cord and the
outlet. You engaged all your intelligence and creativity to help him. In
private, you mourned each lost ability, a raw comparison to parents celebrating
a child’s milestones.
When those accommodations failed
one-by-one, (or sometimes faster,) you supervised. When supervision didn’t
work, you did it. You demonstrated tremendous resilience as you devised ways to
preserve whatever dignity and independence Gregory still had. You were, and
are, his touchstone. You are the one he looks to for comfort, stability, and
anchor.
You’ve always been open about
your feelings, and never critical of my questions. Once I asked you, how long
could you do this? Your response struck me and stuck with me. You said, I have
the time. I don’t need to go anywhere and I can take Gregory with me if I need
to run an errand. You were saying, why not care for Gregory at home
indefinitely; I have the capability. I don’t think I could ever be that generous.
But one day, that wasn’t enough.
One day, Gregory was not calm and compliant anymore, but agitated, unspeakably
sad, and lashing out. Thanks to your preparedness, you did not panic. You found
him a place to be where he is comfortable. He is calm and happy again. Nothing
about you changed. Gregory changed.
Through all of this, you also
cared for your extended family and friends, by keeping us apprised, at least in
broad strokes, of what to expect. You communicated your strong sense of what
you need—support, acknowledgement, privacy, no need for suggestions. You never
acted the martyr; just laid out the facts. You cried in your pillow at night.
I am honored that you include me
in your circle, and I don’t know what I do to deserve it. I do know I need to reflect
on how I can be more like you.
I’ve told my children, a good friend
should be someone who makes you want to be a better person. You are a good friend!
I can only aspire to be in a
relationship like the one you had with Gregory all those years. What I can do
is to try to be more patient, more thoughtful, more devoted, as you have with
Gregory. Because of your example, I am making an effort to make more time, take
more time to think about how I can help them. Your influence improves the
world.
You may not be a saint—but you may
be a minor angel.
Love Pat
