Post-LBD

A Forthcoming Book

/ Shirleyjdietz / 1 Comment

Hopefully, this is the last assignment from my publisher.

The account I’ve written about my experience caring for my husband through years of Lewy body dementia is soon to be published. I’ve been thinking about the main takeaway for readers of the book. What did I mean to communicate? 

Many of the stories in the book told of the daily struggles, frustrations, and challenges encountered during a prolonged terminal illness. I didn’t know at the time how long Dennis had to live, but I knew time with him was so much shorter than we had wanted. As I wrote about the hard times, I was reminded of how precious the small, ordinary moments can be. I want to remind readers that those moments can be found if they look for them. As I learned to look for them myself, the exercise changed me. I live differently now. I pay attention better. I even verbalize my joy and gratitude for the small, the unique, the never-to-be-had-again experiences.

One of those moments I was writing about… No we are not aliens.

This experience of seeing my husband of fifty years fight to survive, even as he clearly wasn’t winning his battle was so difficult. An unexpected diagnosis like this makes no sense if one does not believe in God, and know him. For me, it was important to know that God’s character demands that he give purpose to everything in my life, and in Dennis’s life. He is not wasteful. There was purpose in what we went through. Going through hard things is always valuable if we know God. For those readers of this book that desperately want help, notice that I often referenced the times when we turned to God for answers, for strength, for comfort and peace. We got what we needed and you can too.  

There may be comfort in knowing that others are experiencing similar trials, and I hope my accounts provide that for my readers. You are not alone. Although I never intended to write a handbook on LBD caregiving, you may find ideas or perspectives that help you with some of your problems.

Finally, as I’ve spent the last three years without my husband, I’ve also watched others go through that kind of loss. Some do not adjust well at all. I process and come to accept the life God gives me by thinking and writing. Others turn to professional therapy, to personal friendships, or to some other outlet for the recurring feelings that need to be expressed. One of the most important things that I mean to communicate is that it is okay to talk about those feelings. Even if they are not beautiful, kind or faith filled, it is okay to name feelings in order to move past them. Find someone who will listen, find an audience. Yes, things have changed and you are different, but you can move forward. 

I intend to write my story of moving forward. It is my hope that what I write will help in that regard as well. Your one life is the adventure God meant for you to have. Don’t let it be short changed. 

What We Remember

/ Shirleyjdietz / Leave a comment

There are so many memories of Dennis that my daughters and I talk about when we are together. We are all working our way through accepting his absence, realizing how permanent it is.

This week Esther had an assignment in a writing class, in which she produced a video to go along with a poem. She chose the poem “No Baptism” by Olivia Gatwood, which describes scenes from her childhood. Her video was a literal kaleidoscope of scenes from her childhood, focusing on her dad, Dennis. It was beautiful, a “sweet, sad, special little thing” to her, and to Julia and I as well.

Julia, in her new role of mother of an infant, has multiple opportunities to look back and review the parenting she received. It has brought a new understanding of the fathering Dennis gave her, some of it bittersweet. That’s okay. She wishes he could have had the pleasure of know his granddaughter.

For me, my criticisms of him have grown distant. My appreciation of him has solidified. In his honor, I often turn out unneeded lights and think of him as I do it.

How strange that life has gone on, and yet, what else could it do?

I mistakenly referenced a poem with the same name but different author. That has been corrected.

January 14th

/ Shirleyjdietz / 3 Comments

This is Sunday, January 14th 2024. This morning I saw a text from my mother on my phone. It read “I’m remembering that amazing winter day 51 years ago when Shirley and Dennis had their wedding.”

His wedding band (mine now), the diamond he picked out by himself for me

I was stunned that I had not remembered it. Can I so easily have put that behind me? I had not said today’s date, or written it, or looked at a calendar – but even that might not have made a difference. I haven’t thought about it in the preceding week when I was more aware of how fast January was progressing.

My present life is so all absorbing that I don’t think about much except how I will conduct myself in the next hour or two. I suppose in some ways that is good, but right now it seems sad to me.

Was it pure chance that this week I had the first dream about Dennis that I can remember having since he died? Even in thinking of the dream for the past two days, it did not occur to me to think of our anniversary. It’s as if his death has so released me to be in the busy world of the living, that I have forgotten to think of the blessing of our life together.

In the dream, I was investigating an old abandoned building, such as ones that were on my grandfather’s farm. It was empty and cold. In a corner, on the hard floor, Dennis was lying quietly. When I approached he said that he had been calling for someone, anyone, to turn on a light so he could see. He was like he had been in the last days of life, totally disabled and helpless. I was greatly troubled, because I could not believe he was there alone. Why did I not know that he had no one with him? Hadn’t he died? Was I supposed to still be caring for him? I helped him to a vehicle, in that odd way that dreams make possible, lifting him myself and sliding him into the back of a truck.

It’s not that I don’t remember Dennis. I read something just this morning that reminded me of him. In a wonderful book on Prayer, Richard J. Foster writes about the “prayer of quiet”.

“… we experience an inward attentiveness to divine motions. At the center of our being we are hushed. The experience is more profound than mere silence or lack of words. There is stillness, to be sure, but it is a listening stillness. We feel more alive, more active, than we ever do when our minds are askew with muchness and manyness.”

Dennis, always a man of many words, was brought to silence and he submitted to something that left him so peaceful, so accepting. There was no way to know what was in his conscious mind, but I often felt God’s presence when I was caring for him. Maybe he was experiencing that kind of quiet, contemplative prayer, without words. That’s what I like to think.

The Bible says that there is no marriage in heaven. It says that covenants, like marriage, end when one of the parties dies. I am no longer married, and maybe the acceptance of that is why I am not searching for feelings about our anniversary. Maybe that’s why I didn’t even think about it today, until I was reminded.

Or maybe it is fitting that this anniversary be like many of our anniversaries when we failed to plan a celebration of any kind. It has a comforting familiarity. Maybe it’s just me, being like we always were, and that is okay. I believe I will see Dennis again. We won’t be married but I will be glad to see him. I will remember that I loved him.