My Wasted Silent Treatment

This past week Dean and I just happened to get in a tiff right before bedtime. Therefore he told me to shut up and I, being the normal wife, told him I'd be happy to, thinking that a good, long silent treatment would surely teach him a lesson. Tomorrow morning he would wonder why I still wasn't speaking to him.

But tomorrow came and Dean woke up as if nothing was amiss. Even with my quiet demeanor, it dawned on me that with his memory loss, my desire for revenge was doomed from the start. He would never be able to make the connection between my silence and any of his rude behaviors. So I determined that I would play dumb about our previous annoyance and all would be good.

I wondered why this scenario didn't happen more often. Why do I seldom have ammunition I want to throw at him over an extended period of time? Then I remembered that we failed to say our usual good-night to each other that night. More often than not it comes with a blanket apology from both of us, but usually initiated by Dean, for any wrongs we may have done to each other during the day.

This nightly apologizing has been an essential element of our marriage, especially since the dementia, but how necessary it is in any marriage.  It's why Paul advises us to "let not the sun go down upon your wrath" (Ephesians 4:26). Yep, it's best to take care of it the night before. Not with angry vengeance in our heart, but with apologies.

Minnie Melts

I took my little dog Minnie to the vet today for shots. It was hard to see her get poked and hear her whimper when the needles went in. Dogs are so trusting though. I held her afterwards and she melted in my arms.

There was a moment in the waiting room that I wanted to melt in someone's arms. Disappear in them actually. My husband begged me to take him with me to the vet's and I reluctantly agreed, even though he could have stayed home with my nephew. I won't go into details, but let's just say I was embarrassed by some of Dean's behavior while we waited for Minnie's turn for shots.

It's getting more difficult to take him places. I always wondered why caregivers, especially those with loved ones with dementia, stayed home so much and felt so isolated. But that's just the way it is, when it's all said and done, it's just easier to stay home.

I'm actually fortunate to have been a caregiver for Dean's brain injury so many years already. I feel like I know the ropes a bit already. It's all the same dementia symptoms, just brought up a notch. Now that I've gotten used to the idea that it will get worse, I can focus on strategies to keep things running smoothly around here.

I am ready to melt in my Savior's arms when needed. Those shots can really hurt, but I try to remember that they are vital instruments in carrying out God's will for the whole universe. I am not isolated one bit, no matter how much we stay home.

True Compassion

Some of you may remember a blog I posted a few days ago about my toddler moment. As opposed to senior moments, these absences from sanity can occur at any age. But tonight was my husband's turn to exhibit the temper of a toddler. His performance was characterized by a low frustration tolerance, followed by an overreaction that had the appearance of a toddler's clenched fists and kicking feet. Trust me, it doesn't look good on a 66-year-old man. But we generally forgive his frequent outbursts, knowing it's just the dementia talking.

Ever since my episode with toddlerhood the other day, I have a new appreciation for the horrible guilt and embarrassment these lapses cause you to feel. I know Dean still has those feelings too, due to the fact that he almost always apologizes for his blowups, even the ones he can't remember, which I call  his blanket apologies. This realization of how it felt for me after my episode helps me have more patience in dealing with him when he gets disagreeable. Knowing he's not comfortable with the way he's acting either, I can have patience and true compassion for what he struggles with.

Didn't Jesus say on the cross, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."? Talk about compassion. The least I can do is share it with one brain-injured survivor named Dean, who often doesn't know what he's doing when he gets mad.