The walk-in shower

A visit to a friend whose walk-in shower was enviably better appointed than the one I had had installed was a reminder of why I ordered mine. I had hopes that it  would make life easier for Burt after his stay in rehab.

Bathfitters made quick work of replacing the tub with the easy access shower.

Burt had avoided showering for most of his illness. The carers at rehab had succeeded in getting him to take two showers over the course of a couple of months.

Once home, Burt showered on two more occasions with his OT.  He did not relish getting wet.

This reaction, I need to tell you, is not unusual for a person with dementia.

The shower has served me well, but it was of no help to Burt. The alternative for the caregiver is bedbaths. I used a soapless soap, one that didn’t require rinsing. There are many available, and I recommend you use a soft cloth for a gentle experience.

Dreaming

My friend wondered where our dreamscapes come from when I shared my dream with her.

My dream of Burt, probably last
Th or Fr was meant to be noted on the following morning.

I forgot to write it down then. When I did recall it, it struck me as odd, funny and pleasant.

We wanted to go out to eat, and there was a  fancy new Chinese place. We got on line for the advertised $25 dinner. I said you know it’s $25 per person. 

I suggested that Burt get one dinner to go. We’ll eat it at home. Burt went in to the restaurant and I went to a balcony across the street.

Burt rode a tricycle with an open work metal basket on its front with the take out bag. The bag was a proper paper shopping bag like one from Bloomingdale’s. He pedaled down the middle of the street. I believe I called down to him. Then I awoke.

When I awoke, I said to myself, I have to note down this dream.

I forgot then but, happily and gratefully, remember it now.

I remember

There is a phenomenon of memory that I am just now observing.

It feels like it happens backwards.

Let me clarify if I can:

I am not drawn to act on the memory, rather it coincidentally comes to me as I go about doing what I would do.

But, what I do is not coincidental. I am drawn to walk that street, drawn perhaps by the memory.

I do not recognize my memory, until I have walked that street, stopped in that shop.

It is then that I remember.

I act on a memory I am unaware of until it is embodied.

Then, I can say, with a smile on my lips, ah, here is the lobby where Burt and I would sit while waiting to go to a show. Now, I remember that.

In other words, where I am is not a memory tour it’s one in which  memories unfurl.

Honestly, there are so many good memories for me to uncover that perhaps I will encounter them one upon the other everywhere I go.

I hope so.

Grief, grieving

Is it possible to turn grief into grievance? I accept that grieving has no timeline; I don’t want to shoo my grief away. In a way, it’s my grief that honors Burt.

So what am I talking about? Is it the sense that long term grief is a kind of wallowing? Yes, that is part of it.

Get over it, enough already. I don’t know if that’s a societal attitude. I am hearing that from myself. Not imminently. This moment is too soon for me to stop grieving. But I think that such a moment should come.

I know that that is not true.

Grief and sorrow, mourning and sadness seem like kith and kin of a loss. We mourn in sorrow but grieving does not mean we are perpetually sad. Grief becomes a part of our normal, natural life.

I know that that is true.

Grief turns into memories and remembrance. It is our way to honor our beloved. My grief will always continue to honor Burt, not only in sorrow but in happy memories.

I was safe. I thought I was safe.

The above is a prompt from Wild Heart’s Miribai Starr- well the second half is. She is guiding the grief workshop to which I am listening. It debunks some myths about grieving. [Wild Heart and Holy Lament, a grief community, is led by Miribai and Willow Brook.]

I thought I was safe; it’s not the same as I was safe.

None of us is shielded from being human, being frail, being mortal. Our loved ones, whom we desire to keep safe, they too are mortal.

When death takes your beloved, as it did mine, we are perhaps more devastated than if we were stricken and died.

More surprised than we would be at our own dying. As human, we know of our mortality. It is our gift and our millstone.

I was surprised when Burt passed – although his death was fully expected.

He had been announcing it for four days when he succumbed. Yet, I was surprised, prepared and not prepared. I thought I was safe, but I knew I would lose him; I knew I was not.

Laugh, love, remember

Honoring those we love who have died is not a matter of constant sorrow. I was in a speakeasy Friday night, having fun watching the young, and, yes, being honored by them. [See “You are icons.” Prohibitions is back, baby.]

At the top of the Christopher Street station steps, #1 IRT line

Intentionality, my awkward word for mindfulness, makes it essential to laugh while grieving. This is not my cop-out guilt over having a good time.

Why am I?

Why are we so obsessed with the end, with being there when our loved one passes? I say “we,” but I am asking “Why am I reliving the end?” Why am I upset that I was not on the scene when Burt died?

I say “we” because I think it’s a universal distress. I wasn’t there at the moment he passed. I really do believe that “we all die alone.” I believe it so tightly that I recall writing a poem about it but can’t find it anywhere. Clearly, this is a subliminal thought I carry.

There is a secondary belief that our beloved waits til we are out of the room. Dying is a private act and Burt died on his own terms. I came back just minutes after he had gone. Ten minutes? Twenty?, more?, I ask myself.

His passing was both peaceful and tumultuous.

I remember the last four days when he sought to find an exit, something, when he reached silently with his arms and his  elegant fingers outstretched. I remember it as Burt seeking an exit, pethaps that is a memory of hindsight. I think it is accurate.

We all die alone
It is our story, our drama
With which we close
The scene. It will
Always be profound,
Our death, a solo bow
To our life and to our loves

These are my thoughts on the six months anniversary of his death.

Re-telling

It seems that I am covering the same ground in my posts lately. A few from the last couple of days, in commemoration of six months since Burt’s passing, repeat many stories I have told you.

Some of those are running on a loop, looking for answers. I know there are no answers and that I am not looking for closure.

Grief is not a disease, or an illness from which I seek to heal.

Mourning is a tribute to those we have lost. I will grieve as long as I grieve. It’s ok.

Passing

When Burt died, our aide and I checked for a pulse. I took the mirror, thanks to my slight acquaitance with Shakespeare to see if he was breathing. Then, I called his GCP at WCM Center on Aging. I wanted EMTs from a familiar place rather than 911 to tend to the final pronouncement.

It was 11:29am, Tuesday, Feb 25, 2025.

They came, and brought in the city resources who surround a death. We had waves of uniforms in the apartment and our halls.

When the first shift of police were ready to leave as 5pm approached, the police officers gave me the Medical Examiner’s number. I called my friend S who offered to call and ‘yell, in a nice way’ at the M.E.

If anyone could be nice, I knew it would be S, one of those sweet people we are lucky to have in our lives. She called me back just as the young cop got his call to release Burt’s body. I called Kritl Funeral Home. Their men arrived around 7:30 that evening.

I was sorry to let him go, even as I was relieved to deliver him to his final destination, as it were. As sorry as I was also relieved that his journey was over.

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