The Boys Will Have Fond Memories of Gmom....

 Sitting here pondering the subject of my next blog post, but not making much progress.  I've written about how blessed we were.  I have written about the pain of grieving.   I have not yet written about how much Pam adored our five grandsons and that they adored her.  They knew that she didn't like the terms Grandma or Nana, so they called her Gmom.  And that stuck. 

Grieving must be especially difficult for the children.  I know that the three oldest were deeply affected by what the disease did to their grandmother.  And then they had to deal with her death.  They had spent the most time with her.  

I was fortunate that my grandparents all survived until I was in college.  This left me with many great memories.  I trust that Pam did the same with her grandsons.  They each have different adventures that can provide those memories.

Noah and Elijah had a wonderful visit to the Maine Wildlife Center, where they saw several moose up close. And there was the visit to the corn maze.  They got to play in a little room full of dried corn.  Then we all took a wagon ride around the farm.  

When I was young, my parents put me on a train, alone, and my Uncle Peter would pick me up in New York, where I spent a week with him fishing.  My daughters and grandsons had never ridden a train.  It became quite the adventure.  We all met at Shaving Hill Farm and drove to Biddeford, Maine to catch the train, known as the Downeaster, to Boston.   There we spent several hours in the Museum of Science checking out the exhibits.  Then we trudged over to historic Faneuil Hall Marketplace to eat.  An amazing array of over 50 food purveyors and eateries.  There is no food that you can not find there.  We all took a nap on the train ride back to Maine.

In what became an annual family event, were our visits to the Fryeburg Fair.   We all loved watching the horse pulls and then walking through the draft horse barns.  When you are only 10-years old, a 2,000 pound horse is a BIG animal.  The cow barns were also a favorite, especially when there is  a new born calf to see.  The vegetable and craft buildings were also a must.  Our last year to visit was especially challenging as we were sharing one wheel chair between Pam and Kendra.

 The boys also have fond memories of watching the Limington July Fourth Parade and the annual fireworks.  But for Ryder, Jacoby, and Noah, Limington became their second home for six-month during the COVID experience.   Their mom had a medical condition that might have been problematic with COVID vaccines.  The safest place for her boys was our farm in a small town and a mile down a dead-end road.  I sat at the dining room table with the boys on weekdays doing work.  After which they had the run of the farm.  I know that Pam and I felt very blessed to be able to host the boys for that time.  I hope that as time passes they have the same view of their time spent with us.

Being the youngest, Keelan had the most difficulty seeing the effects of the dementia on his grandmother.   As the disease progressed, he understandably distanced himself.  It is just too much for a seven or eight year-old to understand.  But he had a wonderful adventure with us while RVing in Boothbay, Maine.  A nearby steam locomotive living museum provided a day of train rides and historic shops like a blacksmith.  He may not remember because of his your age, but his Gmom was thrilled to spend that time with him.

Christmas was Pam's season.  The farm was always generously decorated.  Her collection of Santa statuettes was on display.  We would all wander up into our Christmas tree field and choose our tree and drag it back to the house.  For most Christmas's the entire family was at the farm.  The stockings were lined up and the  presents were abundant.  The holiday meal was delicious.  They will all remember the Christmas cookie tray.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Pam's relationship with her grandsons didn't end when she died. She left pieces of herself in them. They may not realize it now, but some of the things they learned, the things they enjoyed, and even the way they think about family were shaped by their Gmom.  

It is important that we tell these stories.  Someday, when they're grown men, they may read this and discover memories they had forgotten, or see their grandmother in a way they couldn't when they were children.  They will grow to understand that part of who they are was influenced by their adoring grandmother. And perhaps someday, when they have children of their own, they will tell them about Gmom—the grandmother who loved Christmas, took them to fairs, watched fireworks with them, and let them run free on a farm in Maine.

Pam may not be here to watch them grow into proper young men, but her influence is.  In that way, perhaps she isn't quite as far away as it sometimes feels.

For Me it is Unfinished...

Pam has been gone a little more than two years. Yet there is one question that still haunts me.  Intellectually, I know it shouldn't. But emotionally, it does.  I know that I took good care of her for three years. But did she think so?  I know, I know. Her brain was not functioning normally. She may not have understood. She may not even have been aware. But the question haunts me nonetheless. I often wonder if this feeling stems from what I now think of as "the shirt incident."

Pam was always very particular about her appearance. I assumed that came from working in retail. She
regularly had her hair and nails done professionally, and she was an impeccable dresser. She was also very
private when it came to getting dressed.  As the symptoms progressed, it became more and more difficult to help her get dressed in the morning or changed into her pajamas at night. Whenever I helped her change clothes, I would often reassure her by saying, "I won't peek."

One evening, she was more resistant than usual about changing into her pajamas. Every attempt to remove
her shirt was met with determined resistance. Out of frustration, I warned her that if she would not let me
remove it, I would have to cut it off.  She continued to resist.  I picked up a pair of scissors and cut the shirt off.  The moment I did it, I was overwhelmed with guilt. After I had gotten her changed and tucked into bed, I immediately went online and ordered her two new shirts. The next day I told our hired caregiver what had happened. She gently reminded me that a memory care facility would have done exactly the same thing.  It didn't matter.  I never did anything like that again. To this day, whenever I think about that evening, the guilt comes rushing back.

For quite a while, Pam talked about there being two Bruce's—the good one and the other one. My daughter and I eventually realized that, depending on my mood, I was either the good Bruce or the other Bruce.  During her final year, she often referred to me in the third person. That was a good indication that she no longer really knew who I was. Yet there were still glimmers of recognition.  One day, while we were dancing to Johnny Mathis and her sister was filming us, Pam looked over at her with a broad grin. For just a moment, she seemed to understand exactly what was happening. Even now, that video brings tears to my eyes.

A few hours before she passed away, Pam opened her eyes, looked directly at me, and puckered her lips for our last kiss.  Was she aware of the care I gave her? Did she know how deeply I loved her? Did she understand that everything I did—even my mistakes—came from trying to keep her safe and comfortable?  Those are questions I will never be able to answer.

The truth is, it no longer matters to anyone but me. Her care is finished. Her suffering is over. The past
cannot be changed.  And yet, the question remains.  For everyone else, it is history.  For me, it is still unfinished.

Walking Among the Beautiful...

My last blog was pretty heavy stuff, so I am going to make this one much lighter.  Life has a way of carrying us through highs and lows, and the people we love often form the support system that steadies us along the way. When we lose someone dear, that foundation shifts. The emotions can be overwhelming, and even simple activities can feel hard to focus on.

One thing that is helping  me is my gardening — or at least the version of gardening that condo living allows. We can’t exactly plow up a backyard, but we are permitted to create flowerbeds around our foundation and walkways. Most units have modest plantings along their front walk. When we bought ours, the front was lined with large shrubs that didn’t appeal to me at all, so out they went. I also expanded a six‑foot gap along the outer walkway, turning it into a continuous planting area.

 
 Although I removed four big shrubs, I kept three plants that had real charm:   The Siberian Iris occupies a prominent spot on the corner of the garage.   It is a spring bloomer, smaller than most iris varieties, and very enthusiastic about spreading.  Rhododendron are beautiful spring bloomers.  My Piedmont Rhododendron is a smaller, more delicate rhody tucked behind the lamp post.  Finally, the Balloon Flower is a lovely blue perennial whose buds puff up like tiny balloons before opening.

With limited planting area, my list of favorites is short.  Among my favorite are the Hostas. Hardy, varied, and instantly recognizable. I have three varieties, totaling six plants.  Blue Angel is a deep blueish green.  The August Lily is a green and white variegated.  And a Giant Leaf Hosta.  Hydrangea comes next, with its big, showy clusters. My single plant is blooming right now and it comes with a funny backstory.  I’ve always loved Rose of Sharon (hibiscus), mostly because my grandparents had a huge one by their back door. New Hampshire is right at the northern edge of their range, but I tried anyway. Two plants didn’t survive a brutally cold winter — or so I thought.  Turns out the nursery had grafted the hibiscus onto Hydrangea rootstock. The hibiscus died, but the rootstock lived on. Now I have a beautiful Hydrangea courtesy of botanical stubbornness.  To break up all the perennials, I added two evergreens: a dwarf juniper between my azaleas and a Sawara cypress bonsai that is… no longer a bonsai. I don’t know how to keep one trimmed, so it’s now about four feet tall.  I also have two Swamp Azaleas at the front of the planting area. They’re native to the region and bloom in the fall with clusters of small white flowers. 

This year’s project was roses — four varieties in all.  Most important to me is the Julia Child Rose Tree.  A floribunda rose perched atop a three‑foot stem, now blooming in rich yellow.  I have a True Sincerity sitting in a beautiful blue planter near the front door, producing abundant reddish‑trimmed yellow blooms. This morning it had ten open blossoms and eight buds.  In early spring I added a white seven-foot trellis near the front of the garage.  I have straddled it with a white and a red climbing rose.  It will take a few years to fill in, but we’re well on our way.

 

 

And I have not even mentioned the five flower boxes hung below my deck railing.  I will leave that to another blog.  Obviously, I can get very excited about my little garden.  I have not forgotten Pam.  I miss her dearly.  But this is one way that I can celebrate our fifty plus years together.  I am sure that she is by my side as I walk proudly through my small patch of beauty. 

The Dark Side of Grief...

In this blog and my previous blog, I have talked about grief and how it affected me. What I have not talked about much were the dark days of grief. There were many days when depression and tears dominated my life. Those days have subsided greatly, but they are not completely gone.  

The reality is that I began grieving the moment Pam received her diagnosis. We had great plans for the next several years and a bucket list of places we wanted to experience together. Once the doctor said, “No more travel,” I began grieving the loss of our future plans.  

 But it was not just the plans that I was losing. It was our time together.  After a lifetime of raising a family and building careers, we were finally going to have time that belonged only to us. We could live at our own pace and enjoy the years we had worked so hard to reach. The diagnosis changed that future. Instead of adventures, our lives would now revolve around doctor appointments, caregivers, diminished abilities, and increasing dependence.  

The widely accepted Kübler-Ross model of grief describes five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But grief does not follow a predictable path. People do not necessarily move through those stages in order, and some may never experience certain stages at all. I do not believe I was ever in denial about Pam’s diagnosis or where it would lead.  

For me, there were plenty of evenings sitting in front of my computer, sobbing and wiping away tears. I could not sleep. I could not focus. I simply did not care.  But it was never really about me. It was always about Pam.  

As I learned more about Lewy Body Dementia and its progression, I struggled to understand how we were going to face what was ahead. Pam lost her sense of time. She could no longer understand the difference between daylight and night. She would sleep for hours and then spend hours watching This Old House on television.  

There were blessings along the way. Pam’s sciatica made walking difficult, which meant she did not wander away from home. She had hallucinations, including one where the bronze elephant doorstop appeared to be moving across the bed. The psychiatrist suggested removing the elephant from the room. Courtney took it to her apartment, and that particular hallucination stopped.  But the hallucinations themselves continued. Several times a day, Pam would carry on conversations with people who were not there.  

We were fortunate that she never developed severe delusions or violent behavior. Without those blessings, keeping her at home rather than moving her into memory care would have been much more difficult.  

Watching Pam experience those changes led to some of the darkest days of my life. I experienced periods of deep depression.  My personality is not one that would consider harming myself, but there were days when I simply did not care about myself.  My only job was taking care of her. My only job was honoring the vows we made when we got married.  

 But being a caregiver was something I was completely unprepared for. What did I know about caregiving? I was an engineer. I spent my life solving problems and avoided most of the emotional things. Some evenings, after getting Pam changed and settled into bed, I would just sit there and sob.  

 Even worse, I violated one of the most important rules of caregiving: self-care.  I stopped walking for exercise. I gained 70 pounds during her last eighteen months. I simply stopped caring about myself.  

 When Pam passed away, I was relieved. Her suffering was over.  But mine was just beginning.  How was I going to live alone after fifty-two years together?  For twenty years, we had been homebodies on our farm in Maine. Our days included taking my Red Hemi to car shows, riding horses together, and traveling in our motor home. The car was sold. The horses were gone. The motor home was sold.  The life we had built together was gone.  What was I going to do?  

There were many days when I was overwhelmed by depression. Even my therapist began discussing the possibility of medication, something I was not ready to consider.  

There were days when I spent the entire day sitting at my computer or in my recliner watching YouTube. I had no interest in doing anything. I could not read because I could not concentrate. I slept poorly, except when I fell asleep in the recliner.  

Then, for reasons I still do not fully understand, those feelings slowly began to fade.  I became interested in the planting area in front of my condo. I started setting up a small woodworking shop in the garage. Little things began giving me purpose again.  

I still have moments when tears come unexpectedly. I still think about Pam every day. But those thoughts are often accompanied by a smile as I remember something she said, something she did, or something we shared.  

There were some very dark days.  But those days were not going to bring her back.

The Blessings Shine Through the Cloud of Grief

As I sit here wrapped in grief, with Pam’s photo staring back at me from my computer, I am reminded of how blessed we have been. We were blessed as a family and as a couple.

As parents, we raised three daughters who have become hard-working, caring members of society. They are well educated and understand the value of education. I used to tell them that where you went to school and the grades you earned were only important in getting your first job. In the long run, personal integrity and a strong work ethic matter far more. We must have been decent role models because they have gone on to raise the next generation with those same values.

We were also blessed with opportunities that many people only dream about. Pam accompanied me on two business trips to Arizona. We stayed at a first-class resort and rode horseback through the Arizona desert. While I was working, she toured Sedona and visited the Wrigley Mansion.

We only lived in the Dallas, Texas, area for eighteen months, but during that time we welcomed our daughter, Allyson, into the world. In those short eighteen months, we also had the opportunity to meet and chat with three Dallas Cowboys football players. One of them was even in our Lamaze childbirth class.

We were blessed to travel throughout this country. In 1985, we flew to California for my brother’s wedding. It was the girls’ first airplane ride.  Along with celebrating the wedding, the highlight of the trip was a personal tour of the animal nursery at the San Francisco Zoo.  When Courtney was about eighteen years old, we took a wonderful family vacation to the Williamsburg, Virginia, area. The girls walked through Thomas Jefferson’s home at Monticello and visited the site of the mysterious Lost Colony of Roanoke. 

Our entire family grew to love the island of Bermuda because of my procrastination. I had promised Pam I would take her on a cruise, but after waiting five years or more, she decided to book one herself. She and three of her bowling friends sailed from Boston to Bermuda aboard the Norwegian Majesty. We had such a wonderful time that Pam immediately wanted to go again.

Before passengers return to port, the cruise lines make a strong push to book another voyage, often with a generous discount. I agreed to return, but this time I wanted to bring the girls with us. We ended up taking two more cruises to Bermuda as a family. The highlights were kayaking around St. George’s and spending a day sailing around the island in a twenty-seven-foot sailboat.

A business trip brought us back for our fourth visit. My boss organized a three-day strategic planning meeting that included spouses. We sampled some of Bermuda’s finest restaurants, and before leaving, everyone divided into two teams for a sailboat race across Hamilton Harbor. Pam and I stayed two extra days before flying home.

Our final trip to Bermuda was especially meaningful. It was the destination wedding of our youngest daughter, Kendra. By then, she too had fallen in love with the island.

Our blessings extended beyond travel. We loved horseback riding so much that we eventually owned horses ourselves, along with all the veterinary bills and feed costs that came with them. We owned a farm in rural Maine, where we experienced wildlife up close, including bears, moose, and fishers. Later, we bought a used motor home, which allowed us to explore places like Prince Edward Island in Canada and the Amish countryside of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

When we grieve the loss of someone we love, it is easy to focus on what has been taken from us and overlook the blessings that filled our lives. I cannot do that. My grief is real, and I miss Pam every day. But alongside that grief is a lifetime of memories, experiences, and love that many people never have the chance to know.

I have not overlooked those blessings. They remind me that, despite the sorrow I carry today, we lived a remarkably full and blessed life together.

 

Thank you for your feedback. Now what?

First, I would like to thank the many friends and family members who offered encouraging feedback about my return to the blogging world. Blogging has always been a place where I felt comfortable, and I look forward to sharing some interesting thoughts and experiences.

It has now been two years since Pam left us. Living alone after spending so many years together is hard. I miss the little things most—a hug as we passed in the hallway, a comment over dinner, discussing whatever was on TV, or chatting about our grandsons. More than anything, I miss the companionship.

I know that others in my situation have found a companion—not a replacement, but someone to share dinners with, attend events, or simply spend time together. I have no such desire right now. I realize that could change someday, but at this point I just have no interest. Not long ago, a friend asked me if I still considered myself married. Without hesitation, I answered yes.

I still wrestle with trying to understand what a "normal life" looks like without her. We spent countless hours traveling in our motor home, but that has been sold. I occasionally find myself looking at smaller motor homes, but I know it wouldn't be the same. We also spent many weekends taking my Red Hemi to car shows throughout Maine and New Hampshire. That, too, has been sold. Sometimes it even feels as though friendships we had for years have quietly faded away.

These days, I spend most of my time around the condo, tending to my flowers or working on woodworking projects in the garage. I'll save talking about those projects for another day, since one of them is a gift for my grandson, who graduated from high school this year.

I sometimes wonder how much social interaction is considered normal. I do go out occasionally to hear a musical act, but I've never been someone who enjoys going to clubs or out to dinner on a regular basis. The condo Activities Committee hosts events at the clubhouse throughout the year, yet I've skipped every one of them for months.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm simply adjusting to a quieter life. Other times, I worry that I'm becoming a recluse. I don't know what the right answer is. Perhaps there isn't one. Maybe this is just another part of learning how to move forward while still carrying the memories of a life that meant so much.

There is help out there....

Sitting here, I’m thinking about all the help I received over the last few years. Not help with Pam, but help for me. Emotional help.

Help processing the emotions that come from watching the person you love spiral into an abyss. Help dealing with the ongoing loss of our plans, our hopes, and our dreams as they evaporated before our eyes. Help figuring out how to explain what was happening to our teenage grandsons. They had spent real quality time with Gmom, and now they were witnessing her decline. It was difficult for them to understand what was happening, and just as difficult to understand how it was affecting them.

Even writing about this is emotionally draining. I think I need a nap.

When Pam was diagnosed with dementia, I was completely unprepared for what lay ahead. I had no idea how much I didn’t know.

The first source of help was the Men’s Caregiver Support Group sponsored by the Alzheimer’s Association. I don’t remember how I found the group, especially because I was never much of a support group kind of guy. It wasn’t about being macho. I just wasn’t comfortable discussing touchy-feely topics with a room full of other men.

It was April 2022. There were only thirteen men in the group, plus our moderator. We were all struggling to make decisions because we knew so little about what was ahead. Yet that group proved to be enormously helpful. We learned from each other’s experiences, mistakes, fears, and victories. Every meeting was a safe place to admit what we didn’t know or to show the emotions that were quietly eating away at us.
Phil’s skill as a moderator was one of the reasons the group took on a life of its own. What began as an eight-week program sponsored by the Alzheimer’s Association is now approaching its fifth anniversary. I will be forever grateful to every man in that group. We came from very different backgrounds, but we shared one important commitment: to be open, honest, and caring with one another.

After Pam passed away, Hospice offered a bereavement support group. Unlike the caregiver group, where every spouse had dementia, this was a mixed group of men and women grieving spouses lost to many different illnesses. Some deaths came suddenly, while others followed long, difficult journeys.  Together, we worked through activities designed to help us begin processing our grief. When the eight-week program ended, none of us was quite ready to let go. We started meeting for lunch once a month, and more than a year later that tradition continues. Those lunches remind me that grief may be deeply personal, but it doesn’t have to be lonely.

At some point I decided to seek out a mental health counselor. More than eighteen months later, I still go every other week. I often find myself wondering what I’ll even talk about. Life seems…normal. So why am I here? Is this really helping?

Without fail, the conversation eventually uncovers something buried beneath the surface. A memory. A regret. A realization. Before long, there’s usually a tear or two as the magnitude of my loss comes back into focus. When the session ends, I still find myself wondering whether it helped. I don’t have an answer. Maybe healing isn’t something you notice from one appointment to the next. Maybe it’s something you only recognize when you look back over months or years.

 I could not write about the help I've received without mentioning our eldest daughter. She continues to make time to stop by every week. Sometimes it's only thirty minutes; other times she'll stay for a couple of hours. We might enjoy pancakes together, or she might simply raid the cookie jar.

Her visits have become a commitment—one she faithfully keeps. I know she's there to check on me, but I also know she's honoring her mother. Every visit reminds me that Pam's love for our family didn't end with her passing. It lives on in the quiet ways we continue to care for one another.