Tag: sorrow

Alzheimers disease, Childhood, Fathers Day, grief

Navigating the Grief Laden Alzheimer’s Journey

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

We moved my Dad to memory care this week. So much stuff happened between the decision and the move! Even though my daily life is not affected as much as my mothers, I feel a new type of loss at this stage. I was unprepared for it.

With Alzheimer’s disease, I find, there are layers of loss experienced. There is the slow loss as the person you love loses pieces of who they are, one by one, and you adjust in increments so small they are barely perceptible until one day you realize how much has changed. That is manageable. There is the anticipated loss, you know this disease is terminal, but you manage that grief in a way that allows you to be present for the loved one, the other family members, and your own commitments in life, so you don’t lose the gift of NOW. What I was not prepared for and am talking with God every day about, is the gut punch of putting this beautiful, wonderful person we love into the care and trust of others. Hugging my mom as she sobs the first time she walks through the door of her apartment without her husband of the last 64 years. Going home to my own house, sitting in a chair, knocked breathless by my own pain, my siblings’ pain, Mom’s pain, and wishing I could take it all away, but knowing it must be lived through. Lastly, thinking of the first night in his “apartment” wondering what Dad can think and feel. Is he lonely? Is he scared? This larger than life father of mine who always took charge and took care of us. This now frail yet brave man who understood somehow this choice was for his and his beloved wife’s health and well being, who went without a fuss. Who kissed my mom and said “I’ll see you when I see you.” In his little apartment room, does he see the familiar things we put on the walls, the quilt my Mom made that was on their bed for years, the afghan his own mother knitted 50 years ago draped on his new recliner? Does he find comfort in those things, or does it even register? I can’t even ask him because he won’t understand the question. There are so many layers of grief in this journey. Until we can visit in person, I will continue to pray for, and, as a friend put it, also pray to my father, sending all of the love that I have from my heart to his.

grief, poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

All Is Not Lost

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

All is Not Lost

What is grief but another form of love?

Without pain, is life truly well lived?

These are the questions I ask myself, crying Why deep in the night.

Well lived means well-loved, means well-worn, and sometimes worn out. Read between the lines of worry and sadness.  It’s ok to be tired sometimes. Rest is respite, not weakness.

What is it that keeps us going, to love again and again, in so many ways? The longer one loves, the deeper the grief of love lost. We are so good at it now, we even have anticipatory grief. The great and wise “They” tells me.  Who knew?

I do know this:  Once loved, we will never be truly lost. You will live in my heart, memory and soul, and  I in yours. We are memories, we are words on a page, to be read and reread, and even when I am lost and grieved, our stories will live on to be told and retold, from the tender lips of our children’s children.

Uncategorized

The Price of Addiction

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

Although I always thought it would be this way, I really never was prepared for you to die and leave me with the memories. You died a month before i got married. I remember it like a sucker punch to the gut. I knew you would die  before me, what with the life you led. No matter how much you prepare for the inevitable you are never ready to tell you beloved children their father died. Here is what i remember. Our first date, he was so nervous, and he took me to the fanciest place in town, the Sheraton Tara, where they served a 5 course meal. I knew he didn’t have a car, so we went on the date he driving my Ford Fiesta, I remember him revving it up and saying “Come on Betsy!” He knew more than I did about the sherbet they served to clear our palate. He had a little triangle shaped scar, from ironing his shirt for our date, the iron touched his belly and he was burned, as he ironed his shirt. Nobody as far as I knew, had ever cared enough to iron their shirt for a date with me. I knew early on he had an alcohol problem. But I loved him anyway. He had the most beautiful blue eyes. And he was kind. When he found out he would be a father, he was stunned to think I would hesitate to share my life with him. He wanted to be a dad, he told me for the first time he loved me. Once before that he tried, but I didn’t get it. He picked me up for a date and gave me a red rose. His sister later told me that a red rose means love, he was trying to say he loved me. I didn’t know about those things, and really, I wonder, how many times in my life did I miss those little messages, those little signals and traditions of love? He loved the little river band and heart. He saw them perform together. He took me to see Crosby Stills and Nash. Because I loved the song the Southern Cross. It’s too bad everything went wrong, but we all tried so hard to save him. Anyway, this is about what I remember the little things that nobody else knows, that I can share with my kids who never really knew him. 

Uncategorized

For Tracey

The Writing Life of Kimberly Nash

For Tracey

Chopping onions and peppers tonight and you came to mind.
Unexpectedly.
Just last Monday I rode my horse to the end of the driveway and you drove past.
Unexpectedly.
I waved furiously and our grins met in mutual recognition. I thought, “We will talk about this in a couple of Thursdays” where I expected to see you again at our knitting circle. You on my right, watching over my work, teaching me the elusive “Russian join”, picking up my lost stitches, our needles clicking as companionably as the conversation encircling us. But you left us and this world on Saturday.
Unexpectedly.
I wonder if you liked chopping onions in front of the kitchen window as much as I do? Why does this thought even cross my mind?
Oh my talented knitting friend.
You will forever be the hole in the work, the dropped stitch never to be picked up again, a bright colored marker on the row where I will pause to remember.