Cultural Soup

Happy PSW Day!

During the month of May both nurses and Personal Support Workers (PSW) receive recognition for the work they do. Today is PSW day. In my opinion they deserve recognition and heartfelt thanks each and every day. Cultural soup is just one small reason I give accolades and thank them as often as I can.

I was fortunate to have some wonderful PSW’s both women and men to help me care for my Bert both at home and in Long Term Care (LTC).

When I filled in Bert’s bio of his likes and dislikes I made special mention of his Dutch heritage. In particular I told each staff member: “He loves soups, especially Dutch pea soup and chicken soup.” I had already decided that I would provide the other Dutch treats he liked.

“Oh, that’s great. We can do that”.  The response was unexpected until I was privileged to be with Bert at lunch.  Pea soup and chicken soup days were special.  Though I consider myself a quick learner, it took me maybe seven servings over 22 days to catch on to what I was hearing and seeing.

On pea soup day you can tell how many nationalities are in residence in the home area by listening to and watching the staff who are serving the soup. Pea soup day should be dubbed multicultural soup day. Ditto for chicken soup days.

“Mr. Bert, guess what the soup is today?  Dutch Pea soup. Yummy.”  There is an instant smile of recognition and you can almost see the drool.  Before the bowl is placed in front of him his spoon would be in his hand and he was ready to eat.

“Hi Mama, guess what we are serving today? French Pea soup. Oh, this smells so good.”

“Come Papa please sit down. We made this especially for you. It’s Italian Pea soup.  No, no Mama, come now, lunch is here and we have your favourite, Syrian pea soup. Yummy.”

There is one pot, one ladle, one pea soup with bits of ham floating in it. The soup comes in varied consistency, regular, minced or pureed based on the resident’s need but it is the same soup.

Somehow on the way from that one pot to the resident the soup morphs into the culture of the resident.  My Bert is Dutch so he gets Dutch pea soup.

One day I almost fell off my chair as the following occurred:

“Hi Papa, your favourite soup is here and made just for you – hmmm a nice bowl of Syrian pea soup.  Mama, sit here with your friend and have your special soup – Italian pea soup.

From the corner of my eye I saw another PSW frantically waving and mouthing ‘wrong country’.  Both Papa and Mama who usually start eating as soon as they got their soup were not interested in soup that day. There was more frantic waving and mouthed ‘wrong country’.  Realizing what was happening I went to the PSW, showed her the other who was in mid wave  and whispered: “She’s telling you that you have mixed up the countries of Papa and Mama.”

Quick as a flash the soups are switched and a heartfelt: “Oh, I’m so sorry. THIS is Syrian pea soup and THIS one is the Italian pea soup.”

While I tried to strangle the laughter bubbling up Mama smiled; Papa picked up his spoon and both began to eat with relish. I had to squeeze my eyes shut as my Bert ate his last spoon of soup and said:

“That was good pea soup.  Echte Erwtensoep (Real Pea Soup) Must be Dutch.”

Naturally, I agreed with him.

One of the earliest signs that a resident is not felling well is a lack of appetite, not wanting to eat. There is a great deal of time spent on feeding, ensuring residents eat and are hydrated. I could not help but ponder what a marvelous example of therapeutic lying this whole charade was. The resident was being cared for,  encouraged to eat by finding links to pleasant times, perhaps a link to childhood happiness, being reminded of ‘home’, links to a favourite food that brought satisfaction.

The two soups that lend themselves readily to multiple cultural identities are pea soup and chicken soup.  It seems every nationality has the perfect chicken or pea soup that’s uniquely theirs. It fascinated me that other soups were loved or hated.  Cream of broccoli and tomato soup were generally liked or eaten without much fuss but there were others that could not make the cut. I have witnessed a PSW wearing a bowl of butternut squash soup that the resident expected to be a kind of South Asian curry soup. Then there was the other resident who with each spoonful of tomato soup spat it out with an accompanying: “That’s not Borscht!” Both these residents liked the South Asian chicken soup and pea soup respectively as served in the facility. They could also identify fake curry soup and borscht.  They rejected the soups even though when they were served they were told what soup they were getting. Perhaps it was the colour of the soup that brought on the confusion? I will never know.

Multicultural soup was invented because the staff cared. Once everyone who could, were having their culturally appropriate pea soup or chicken soup staff could concentrate on caring for those who needed more direct hands-on help. A win-win situation.

The Meander: Kudos to PSWs for their care. In instances like this it’s not any kind of lying it is enhanced care with heavy doses of empathy and love. Thank you on this your day and every other day.

Note: Staff knows each person by name, but residents are often called Mama and Papa to establish the loving and caring relationships those words usually signify. I have used it here to protect the privacy of individuals and only my Bert’s nationality is the real one.

Muted and Fading

The wheelchair is in the usual place beside the window.  The view is the same.  It is that very narrow slice of the world comprised of the patio, the gardens, over the street to the restaurant, a parking lot and backyards. The passing vehicular traffic provides the only change in scenery.

Walking up to the wheelchair I see my Bert, head upright with eyes closed but not asleep.

“Good morning my darling.  How’s my Bert today?”  The eyes open slowly. I smile and a tentative smile is returned.  I whisper “I love you” close to his ear and he nods his head.

My Bert no longer utters even one word.  He no longer speaks.  The man who would laugh when I told him that one formula for our happy marriage was that he talked and I listened is now muted.

I begin to describe the scene in front of him as with advancing macular degeneration I am not sure that he sees even that narrow world with any clarity.  He reaches for my hand and then we play the usual game.  As I try to take my hand away he tightens his grip.  He smiles when I cannot get loose but this game is no longer usual.  There was a time not long ago when I had difficulty loosening his grip.  Now I am half pretending. I still my hand and he hangs on now rubbing my thumb up and down, up and down.

He has said nothing.  He is permanently muted.

The birthday balloons are still hanging by the window.  They hover half-heartedly. I had wanted to discard those two weeks before but when I told him I would put them in the garbage my Bert shook his head.

Today as I look at them and see the slow seeping out of the gas, look at their wrinkling softness and see them drooping towards the ground, I see them as a metaphor for my Bert. He too is losing his gas, his vitality; he too is wrinkling, shrinking and losing weight. He too is losing strength and settling into an unhealthy softness.

I am seeing Alzheimer’s Bert today. The disease is taking my Bert.  He does not walk, he does not talk and he lethargically succumbs to having everything done for him and to him.  He understands when asked to open his mouth for the next drink or spoonful of food. He nods, he shakes his head he clamps his teeth when he does not want to eat. He is not eating well anymore so he gets meal replacement supplements. He drinks better than he eats. I am grateful for that.

I find that living in ‘smalls’ is becoming more important as the ‘smalls’ are getting smaller. Just six weeks ago the small joy was the brightening smile and the shout “That’s my wife. That’s my Paula” as I entered the room. Now it is that tentative smile and the holding of hands.

I am getting used to Alzheimer’s muted Bert. I am getting used to Alzheimer’s Bert who can hardly keep his eyes open and the Alzheimer’s Bert that is the epitome of weariness.

I sing to my Bert and show my love the best I can. I overreact at the smile, the nods, the eyes that open one at a time or together. I praise a clean plate and emptied glass. I compliment his attire, his hair, his clean shaven face, his smile.

And I grieve.

My Bert is fading.

The Meander: I am beginning to wonder when enough is enough. The heart and the mind are in a constant battle.

MEET THE AUTHOR (Come say hello, if you can)

AUTHOR SIGNING EVENT

Indigo Books Burlington Centre – Store #977

777 Guelph Line

Burlington, ON

905-639-8860

September 25, 2022

11-5pm

Two Berts

There is a recurring question from friends, family and anyone who knows that my Bert is in a home:

“How is Bert doing?”

My usual answer is: “As well as can be expected.”  This seems to cover the basics.  Depending on the relationship, the enquirer, the social interactions of the moment I might go into a bit more detail. My Bert is living in a Long Term Care facility so ‘fine’ or ‘very well’ seems inappropriate. 

Any further expansion is also based on the Bert I am seeing at the moment.  There are two Berts. There is my Bert and there is Alzheimer’s Bert.  In the book My Bert Has Alzheimer’s I devote some time to talk about the necessity, stress and the confusion of living in two worlds.  There is the real world and Alzheimer’s world.  Now I have two Berts. I invented this new duality as a coping strategy.

When someone has dementia their moods, actions, words, reality can change in an instant. It means that each day I visit my Bert I do not know what I will find. Will he be in a good mood?  Will he be morose?  Will his eyes light up when he sees me or will they look through me? His mood dictates my inner feelings too.  On those days when he lights up as I walk towards him; when he lifts his hand in greeting; when he holds up his head and purse his lips for a kiss; when he jokingly shoos away anyone nearby and  pats the chair beside him for me to sit: That’s my Bert.

On the days he looks sullen and shrugs off my greeting and remains silent, that’s Alzheimer’s Bert. On these days I try every trick in the book to bring him out of that negative mood.  Sometimes I succeed and sometimes not.  My expectations then become basic. He must eat, drink and be comfortable.  That is all.          

My Bert days are wonderful.  He is talkative.  He asks questions and pontificates on subjects that only he understands.  As example a few days ago he told me in no uncertain terms that the ‘things are moving’. After some cogitative expressions and a nod, in a very serious voice I said:  “Yes, they are.” That must have been an acceptable reply as he nodded in satisfaction at the answer. I am still unaware of what the things were and to where they were moving. So what?  My Bert was animated.

The very next day Alzheimer’s Bert was up front and personal. There was no greeting but a rather baleful look that clearly was saying: “Don’t bother me.” I donned the cheerful hat and in a clear voice said:

“Hey, are you not speaking to me today?  Come on; say something out loud to me.”  There was no response. The big grin I had was wasted under my masked visage.

“Oh, well.  I am still speaking to you and I love you.”   The word ‘love’ brings a flicker of interest but no verbalization. He ate his lunch, had his milk and juice but refused the water. No sweat. He had already had soup. This was clearly an example of you can lead a horse to water but you cannot make him drink.

I did not hang around after lunch.  During that entire visit I heard only one word: “No.”

A day later was a banner day.  The topic of conversation was happiness.  My Bert started the ball rolling with: “You are happy.”

“Yes, I am happy.”

“Am I happy?” he asked.

“You tell me.”

“Yes, I’m happy.”

“That’s very good.”  He pondered for a while and then said: “I’m happy. You’re happy. We are happy.” English lesson aside the grin on his face as he said those words was priceless. I laughed out loudly and gave him a hug.  He was delighted and for the next hour or so that conversation was repeated every five minutes. Groan.

Then I got a reprieve. It was barber day so down to the salon he went. I waited for his return.  He came back and his first words were: “Is it good”?

“Oh yes.  It’s a great haircut. You are my handsome Bert.”  He beamed. He wanted to talk but I was not up to another hour discussing the tonsorial splendor of his freshly cut hair.

No dawdling now. I give him the usual see you soon farewell and escaped.

The Meander: I love My Bert and wish I did not have to contend with Alzheimer’s Bert. I’m grateful that my Bert is the one that appears more often…still.

Life Sentence

Six to twenty years plus. This sounds like a prison sentence for a very serious crime. It is, although no crime has been committed. Yet that is the sentence handed down to every prospective caregiver of a loved one diagnosed with Alzheimer disease.

I heard it.  It is a terrible verdict but unlike others this one is indisputable. There is no avenue for appeal.

My Bert Has Alzheimer’s: Caregiving is Living for Two charts ten years into that sentence. I have not marked off the years. There is no lumberman’s tally of the hours, days, or months. That is futile, but on the publication of this memoir it suddenly dawned on me that I may be only at the half way mark of that cruel and unusual punishment.

There is another part to this sentence besides its length. It should also include ‘at hard labour.’  Being a caregiver to a loved one with dementia is the definition of hard labour. One chapter with the heading Caregiver Job Description is a testament to that fact.  Yet with all its details and list of requirements it is still only a glimpse into the convoluted life of a caregiver.

It is a chapter that resonates with readers whether they are caregivers or not. Caregivers of all stripes will remark on how true it is and add their own similar stories and experiences, while others will say: “I don’t know how you do it.”

Another unique facet of this sentence is that the diagnosis is for at least two people.  The disease is for one but the following life of dealing with the manifestations and trajectory of the disease is for both parties.  In fact a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s may be more devastating to the caregiver than to the patient.  

Gasp!  How can you say that?

It is easy for me to arrive at that conclusion.  I am living it.  My Bert is content.  He has no idea  what stress is now.  His blood pressure readings are fantastic.  In fact I know that almost everyone with this disease at this stage, has a fantastic reading unless there is an underlying problem that raises blood pressure.

Whenever my Bert has a reading I will tell him that he has the blood pressure of a teenager, and he, being the character he is, will respond saying: “Of course, I’m a teenager” or: “I’m only 19!” At least that’s what he used to say.  Now he smiles and nods.

So as the caregiver I take delight in his contentment though I rail at the narrowness of his existence. But that is my worry, not his. There’s always a smile when he sees me whether he knows our relationship or not. Perhaps he has forgotten my name but he has not forgotten ME.

At times when I feel as if I am swimming in a sea of despair I also know I feel the despair because I am alive.  I pause and breathe. I breathe and breathe in life.

The Meander:  I hope I do not fall into the estimated 30% of caregivers who die before their loved one. The sentence continues but so does the adventure as our story continues and I have to live for two.

A Red-letter Week

Most people have a red-letter day when something extraordinarily good happens.  I had a red-letter week.

First is the confirmation that I am a 2022 Honouree:

http://100abcwomen.ca

 100 Accomplished Black Canadian Women

 I am honoured and humbled to be among this class of distinguished women. I thought things could not get any better.  Then this equally exciting news:

My book: My Bert Has Alzheimer’s: Caregiving is Living for Two is published.

You may view details at: https://books.friesenpress.com/store/title/119734000213242990

Ever since the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s I have immersed myself in learning about dementia and the marvellous mysteries of the brain. They are both fascinating and complex.

What is the use of learning without sharing? The more I learnt the more I wanted to share.  It became more urgent as I realized that much of what I was learning in the hands-on practical theatre of caring for a person with dementia came from people like me. They opened their hearts and minds and wrote down their own experiences and in so doing helped me to develop best caring practices for both my Bert and for me.

The disease is as individual as each person that contracts it.  Just as no two people are carbon copies of each other, so too the disease chameleon-like manifests itself differently and uniquely in each individual.

My hope is that anyone reading this slice of life of my Bert and me will find information, support, and guidance whether they are in a caregiving situation or not. Alzheimer’s is here to stay. It is the most prevalent form of dementia..  I wish I had been more informed before I was ambushed by the diagnosis.

Worldwide distribution should happen in approximately four weeks.  In addition to FriesenPress Bookstore it will be available at Amazon; Barnes and Noble; and in eBook format on Kindle (Amazon); Google Books, iTunes Bookstore.  You may also check in at your local bookstore and your local library.

The Meander: To share is to care.

Lasts

It is Corbert and Amy’s wedding anniversary.  I smile as I sign their card.  I blithely write that it is from Dad and Mom.  The smile fades. In its place is not a frown but a hesitancy, a new kind of indecision wrapped in doubt and some wistfulness.  The question intrudes: “Will this be the last time I write Mom and Dad?”

I send a birthday card to a niece and write, with a flourish, from Uncle Bert and Aunt Paula. Another goes to a friend and again from Bert and Paula.

Birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, sympathy, condolences, get well and thank you cards were under my list of duties and all of them were signed by me for two. It was always from two.

It is the little incidents of thought, reverie, a shiny object, a souvenir and the simple signing of a card that can bring about an extreme sense of loss. All of a sudden I began to wonder about lasts.  The last hello, the last and final goodbye, the last trip to the Home, the last hug, the last farewell to the staff, the last pondering of how to acknowledge the care given to my Bert.

We sit at my Bert’s table looking out his window.  A slight gust of wind and the canvass awning on the nearby balcony rises and falls.  My Bert looks out and says: “The wind is strong.  Look.”  The wind and the movement of the awning always bring some reaction.  I wonder when it will be the last time for this.

What will be the last programme we share, the last pub night, the last musical presentation? Will I be holding his hands? When will I see that last smile or hear the last: “I love you too.”

Lasts are roiling in my mind. I contemplate the last hair cut, the last foot care, the last grapes I bring to him.  That brings to mind the last food he will eat and I wonder if it will be regular, mince, puree, liquid or gel. Even food foretells the decline to the end. Should I ask that his favourite foods make up his last meal? Will the last meal be regular or potage or the drip, drip of a colourless liquid?

We sit on the patio and I make sure he is out of the sun.  My Bert does not tan well.  He goes from pale to lobster red and back to pale quickly.  I put some sun screen on his hands and wonder: Is this the last time?  I glance at the rose bush which is coming out strong and already I can envision the lovely yellow roses that will bloom soon.  It is a beautiful bush and again I wonder if this will be the last time we admire it together.

I shake myself out of morbid thoughts and try to substitute happy lasts.  For the life of me I can’t think of any. Last of anything is a precursor to an end.  In the effort to move away from sadness I find I must move away from the lasts that involves anything to do with my Bert.

Forcing myself out of morbidity I immediately think of a last that I will welcome. Oh, how I will welcome the last day of Covid-19. What a celebration that would be when not just first world but the entire world is free of Covid-19?  I am not sure that is possible but one can hope and dream.

What a conceit it is to think of the lasts with my Bert as being comparable to a world pandemic.  Yet I think that the sheer enormity of both makes the comparison reasonable.

As I try to conjure up happy lasts I find myself reverting to endings.  It seems that there are many more endings that are sad than happy.  That should not be.  Yet I see happy endings as fairy tales.  It must be the mood I am in, the burden I carry, and the onus that sits constantly on my shoulder to be happy for my Bert.  Now I appreciate how much I depended on him to enhance our natural joy.  He carries so much joy in him. It is infectious. As I remember his wonder, his happiness in the smallest thing I know I have to try to maintain that childlike magic he has.

It can be wearying being happy for two.

It is Father’s Day.  Along with a few gifts my Bert has received four cards.  He has eyes for one card only. It is from Corbert and Amy and features his favourite pet, a dog. It is special. When you pull a tab the dog talks.  It begs him to have a Happy Father’s Day, asks to be thrown a bone, pants and again the Happy Father’s Day wish.

The card is shown to every staff member; my Bert cannot get enough of it.  I finally succeed in teaching him to pull the tab and he is delighted to hear the dog ‘speak’. He takes it with him to the patio. He has so much pleasure in this card that I find myself laughing along with him. He is so animated and pulls the tab so vigorously that I know the card won’t last long. That won’t matter.  For now he is happy.  When the card is pulled to pieces he might ask someone to fix it, but in a very short time he will have forgotten it.  That does not matter either.  We live in the moment. Take pleasure in the moment.

Yet still I wonder?  Is this the last Father’s Day?

The Meander:  Like floaters in the eye the worry about lasts hovers constantly but unobtrusively in the background.  You almost forget they are there. Almost.

New Decade, New Hope

Another year has come and now gone..

The Christmas experiment of taking my Bert to our home for Christmas with the family turned out very well.  It was a wonderful day for all of us.  All the angst and what ifs and worry about a failed dinner, confusion, anxiety and the many issues that could occur when caring for a beloved husband and father in the grips of Alzheimer disease fizzled into nothingness.

We tend to worry too much.

Now 2020 is here.  Again the hullabaloo of making resolutions assaults the airwaves.  I pay no attention.  At the dawn of 2019 I chose the word ‘light’ to be my guiding star.  I will keep it going.  Heck, I may never change it!

I do believe in the yin and yang of existence.  I believe we need both to keep balance.  I know that without darkness, without evil we would not know light or goodness.

Of course, 2019 brought its darkness.  There were many ‘firsts’ in my life that came unwanted, unbidden.  There were some I eagerly embraced. Through it all the light kept on shining.

This momentous dawning of not only a new year but a new decade gives me pause as, with the help of every news medium, I am bombarded with reminders of the momentous events that happened in the last decade.  There were some amazing stories both good and bad. Surely this coming decade will be an entangling of the same.  After all, we know the only constant in life is change.

So here we are entering the third decade of the twenty-first century.  I look back at my own third decade and realize it was a momentous one in my life.  However, I have no desire to return to it.  In this new decade I am looking forward, still blinded, unknowing, but hoping for the best. The future is clothed in mystery and that is how it should be.

During 2019, I learnt to not dwell too much on the ifs and what ifs.  I know that life will go on as it usually does.  Much will happen as the world inexorably unfolds and the history of this time is recorded.  Some events will affect me personally as my own history continues. Some will affect all of us and be worthy of note because we are part of this world and part of the universe.  We will laugh.  We will cry.  I hope the laughter is more abundant than the tears.

As Doris Day sang: “Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be.”

I am also aware that each of us has the power to make a difference to many.  What we do and how we do it will attest to our strength and belief in ourselves to do good or evil or do nothing at all.  We just have to choose and choice is what makes us human.

My choice for the new year and the new decade is to savour the many moments of joy, no matter how small, to treat others as I would like to be treated, that all I do will be fuelled by love, to keep on learning, to live in hope and yes, to continue to seek the light knowing that the stars are brightest in the darkest night.

The Meander:  I wish good Health, Joy and Peace to all. Happy New Year!  Happy New Decade!

Season’s Greetings

As in former years I am left wondering where the year went.  It seems as if I was just writing my Christmas letter of 2018 and looking forward to a bright 2019.

And as in former years this 2019 has seen its highs and lows. 

Throughout the year my belief that there is always a silver lining remained.  Even the fact of my Bert being away from me had its silver linings.  He went into a home I had chosen. A good choice still and one reason I have been able to concentrate on loving while a team of professionals help with the caregiving. The staff is awesome!

Also, if my Bert was still living at home I would not have been able to attend the funeral of my dear childhood friend in Atlanta.  That was a perfect storm of highs and lows. 

My gratitude gene got a good workout throughout this year.  I am so grateful to our son and daughter-in-law who even with busy lives help to fill in the gaps, the Lifeliners and their invaluable support, and to the friends and neighbours who surround us with little acts of kindness every day.  How could I not be grateful.

2019 was a packed year and yet I still wonder where it went.  There is an experiment in the offing.  My Bert is coming home for Christmas.  How will that go?  No one knows.  Unlike the waffling about the anniversary celebration, there is no hesitation here.  My Bert loves to go out and has regular outings with visiting friends and bi-monthly restaurant lunches with the family. Spending Christmas in our own home is a no brainer. We are planning a Bert’s Christmas.  We hope it will be smooth sailing but are prepared to roll with the punches whatever happens.

All in all 2019 was filled with more highs than lows.  Between those two extremes life went on as usual.  There were funerals to attend, love and marriages and new babies to celebrate. We dealt with the ordinary tasks of daily living and revelled in the many moments of joy.

It is Christmas time, the holiday season of hope.  It is an awesome time!

May you have the Spirit of Christmas which is Peace

The Gladness of Christmas which is Hope

The Heart of Christmas which is Love.

Wishing you health and happiness and happy meanderings in 2020 !

Thank You, My Bert

I awake to the mumbling and an incomprehensible rant that is Bertish, the newly invented language of my Bert.

For a minute I lay still hoping that it will end soon.  I am so tired I cannot see.   One gesticulating hand hits me on the shoulder and coming out of the half sleep-half awake state, I realize that I cannot see because it is 2:15 a.m. therefore it is dark.  Duh! Einstein.

A thought insinuates:  If I could have known the future, if I could have seen this part of the journey would I still have married my Bert?

I was mortified that my immediate answer was not a resounding yes.  Then being me I mentally started a pros and cons list and needless to say the pros far outweighed the cons.

I thought of our life together so far and marvelled at the adventure.  I knew when tragedy struck I would not have wanted anyone else beside me.  We weathered the storms together and climbed the highest peaks together.  We laughed, we cried, always together.

My Bert knew before I did how to transform “I” and “Me” to “We” and “Us”.  It is a transformation I cherish.  We did not become one but as a team we were as one.  That is the glory of love.

I realized that whatever is in our future my Bert was and will be always my Bert.

Yet thoughts do not come and go in an instant, they tend to linger with me and the question lingered.  It bothered me that I actually let that thought in.  I made a conscious effort to look dispassionately at my late night musing.

First I forgave myself.   I am only human.

Secondly I realized that being tired and at the point of caregiver burnout such a lapse was inevitable.  I am not Job.  My patience is limited.

Thirdly I faced the futility of the thought.  No-one knows the future so the question is moot.

Then the conclusion:  How wonderful that the future is hidden.  The worst thing about the future is that we do not know what it will bring.  The best thing about the future is that we do not know what it will bring so we can look forward to it with hope. We can dream of a brighter day.

Then, as if the universe felt my troubled state and wanted to mitigate my self- flagellation it smiled on me.

In my mailbox there was a large envelope.  It contained among congratulatory messages a notification of the Heroes in the Home Caregiver Recognition Award presented by the Local Health Integration Network.

It was the right time, coming at my hour of greatest need.  What a lift and how serendipitous.

All caregivers deserve an award such as this because we are all heroes in the home.  We give care fueled by love to those near and dear to us, sometimes at enormous cost to ourselves.

We never asked for this particular job.  It is one challenge we would gladly forgo.  We just do what we must do.  We have no choice.  It is part of the package.  It is one leg of the journey.  We accept it and hope the future will be less dramatic and traumatic.

The Meander:   I have been honoured because my Bert first honoured me.   My nominator Ana, and the people who surround us see beyond my Bert’s dependency.  They see the love. Thank you, Ana. Thank you, HNHB-LHIN. Thank you, my Bert.  “YES! I would do it all over again.”