Transition

It’s in my journal. “Burt has so much trouble with transitions.”*

Then it hits me, Burt’s transitions drive me nuts. It takes so long for him to get up out of his chair. I timed it one day, and it took 45 minutes. That was with two of us assisting him.

I just get so antsy that I add to the difficulty.

On good days, I leave him to the aide. That way, my impatience doesn’t add a distraction.

Today, he couldn’t (I would say wouldn’t, but he no longer really has that kind of will) get off the bed.

I left him with his weekend guy and went to have a cappucino. [Nice new place on the corner of 77th and York, by the way.] I left because his inert position, sitting near the edge of his bed, was wearing on my nerves. 

Of course, I know he can’t help it. I shake my head, saying Poor Burt under my breath. I’m just emotionally drained by this. It’s not rational. It feels unkind.

I need to walk away.

Today, I was handed a few other opportunities to be tested. After my break, I came back to help him to the bathroom.

He again could not move off the toilet but really wanted the pistachio ice cream I promised.

I went to pick that up and came back to help pick him up to go from the bathroom to the bed.

Each little transition of mine – going out for coffee and to the ice cream parlor – fortified me for the transitions with which Burt was struggling.

*Transitions were always difficult for Burt. They were integral to his anxiety disorder years and years before his LBD diagnosis.