Sad, Frightening, and Beautiful

Today at Lieberman I witnessed something sad, frightening, and beautiful.

First, the set up. Today at Lieberman we had an Oscar Previews Party. The staff wore formal gowns and heels. A few female residents wore beautiful hats with feathers or cabbage roses and a few male residents wore sport coats with a jaunty scarf tossed around the neck.. There was a red carpet to walk down and you could have your photograph taken by our volunteer photographer.

Slides of beautiful dresses, beautiful people, and previous Oscar winners over the years were shown, trailers from each film nominated for best movie were shown, all categories were discussed and residents could vote for whom they thought would win.

The first trailer was from Sharpshooter, biopic of Chris Kyle, the most-celebrated sniper in American military history. In the aftermath of 9/11, Kyle decides to serve his country by becoming a Navy SEAL.

Second, the sad and frightening. As we watched the trailer, Gregory began getting upset and his upset elevated fairly quickly. He got loudly verbal, anxiously shifted around in his wheel chair, and cried. The reaction was caused by the shooting and violence we were seeing in the trailer.

After ten or fifteen seconds of trying to calm him down, to no avail, I asked him if he would like to go out of the room. (I felt like a loving mother with a misbehaving child at the movies. Instead of expecting "self control," remove the child from the situation. ) 

He said, "Yes." 

I repeated, "Do you want to leave the room?" 

"Please," he said. 

He continued to get more and more upset emotionally as I was turning his chair around to head for the door when he picked up "Peaceful the Bear" and threw him down on the floor with such never before seen force and anger saying, "There!"

Up until then Peaceful was always loved and loving. Comforting. Watching this was amazing.

Third, the wonderful. Gregory and I hugged and rocked and I cooed calming words. He calmed down once we were away from the shooting and violence on the screen. The situation and discomfort was over and Gregory was OK again. I put Peaceful back into his lap and said, "Peaceful loves you!"

The beauty in this is that Gregory still has emotions and is able to express them. Also, it is important to note that the emotions are not unreasonable or out of control. Life has its ups and downs. It is good that Gregory is still able to experience them!

Witnessing

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