How Green Was My Valley

What a difference a week can make!!!

 

Of course, there are the obvious ways...  Weather systems moving in and out, sometimes wreaking havoc in their paths, as did the bombardment of wind and rain that some unlucky central U.S. states buckled down under last week.  Then there are the ever-changing (yet somehow oddly consistent) news stories from abroad and at home, as in another attempted mass shooting in a frighteningly public venue... an airport!  (I only pray that we aren't become immune to this type of headline as a society).  

 

The week that passed also brought causes for great celebration, like the Boston Red Sox winning the World Series title at home in their now historic Fenway Park for the first time since 1918.  1918!!!  Sooooooo long ago, to hear the enthusiastic sportscasters talk about it!  And yet, that was the very same year in which "V" was born.  When one is privileged enough to spend time in her presence, however, it doesn't seem all that long ago!  At least not to me!

 

The local changes that occurred on the overall topography of the Hudson Valley Region were fairly significant last week.  Some still half-dressed Maple trees  completely shed their colorful Summer attire, leaving scattered piles of crackling leaves everywhere in sight.  Halloween, which had been blizzarded and hurricaned into non-existence over the past two years, came and went rather uneventfully.  Actually, "went" is an apt description, because in the area that "V" and I reside, the trick-or-treaters simply never "came" due to some cool temperatures and steady rain showers.   Lots of leftover "just in case" candy for us!

 

And who can forget the annual nationwide "Fall Back," the time change in most of the United States that allows people to regain the precious hour of sleep they begrudgingly forfeited last March, the tradeoff being darker days from here-on-in until we Spring Forward once again.  It's funny how eager we are to give that begrudged lost hour back to Mother Nature in exchange for a little more light!

 

Then there are the subtler changes... The ones that occur in a person's psyche and demeanor.  Emotional waves that, although not very high, are nevertheless strong and steady.  The little things that perhaps go unnoticed until someone who spends a lot of time with a particular individual is able to detect them. 

 

As caregivers, I believe we all have the ability to notice such subtleties in the people we look after. 

 

I definitely saw some changes in "V"s overall demeanor and attitude this past week, and I wondered throughout the weekend what they were attributed to.

 

Perhaps the reality of the oncoming winter has something to do with it, as the lush green valley behind "V"s home begins to fade into an almost unrecognizable blend of gray and brown, dotted with equally gray looking evergreen trees.   The chill in the air can still lead to moderately pleasant days, filled with warm sunshine fine enough for basking in, although the other alternative is ever-present... there could also be a beautiful blanket of far too early snowfall painting the horizon.

 

 

 

"V" and I discussed the dramatic changes in the landscape that had occurred over the past several weeks during our breakfast this morning, as we gazed at the formerly glowing but now forlorn-looking field of beans.  For some reason, our conversation focused on birds of the region.  Over the past several weeks, we had watched many of our aviary friends flee the area, most memorable of which were the extremely loud, V-line formatted Canadian Geese.  Always an amazing sight, no matter how many years one has seen the occurrence.   Like ninety-five years, for example.

"V" and I also talked about the glorious red cardinals that brighten up the bleak landscape every winter, and I acknowledged the fact that these wonderful creatures were not residents of the West Coast of the United States, where I lived for ten years.  We both agreed that maybe God put them where they were most needed, as a sign of hope that brighter, more colorful days were to come.

 

"Not for me, though" "V" suddenly stated with a certainty that increased my already chilly bones. 

 

"What do you mean?" I asked encouragingly, trying to bring back some semblance of cheer to the coldness slowly creeping through the room.  "You are in wonderful health for your age, and you could very well live another five or ten years!"

 

"V" shrugged wearily, and I had noticed that she looked especially tired all weekend long.  "I suppose I could," she went on, "but the reality is that I won't.  My time is almost done."

 

Ouch!  Reality reached out and slapped me just a tad too harshly with that comment! 

 

I continued my attempt at encouragement.  "You could have many more years ahead of you that are filled with a good quality in your life..." I began bargaining.

 

"I know," "V" said, smiling a bit sadly.  "I know that my life is good compared to others my age."  She hesitated just a bit, then went on, "But I know that I'm near the end."

 

She continued, and I listened carefully, trying to understand where she was coming from.  "My husband and I used to feed all the birds," "V" began.  "He even built a special platform for them," she pointed to a now bare spot on the back deck.  "We used to love to sit right at this table and watch the birds eat..."  her voice trailed off and an awkward silence hung in the room.

 

Not comfortable with awkward silences, but fully realizing that they are often quite necessary in order to truly hear what the other person is conveying, I held my tongue.

 

"V" went on, "There's so many things I can't do anymore that I wish I could."

 

"Like what?" I chimed in perhaps too eagerly, adding that "We (the caregiving team) would be more than happy to do anything you would like us to do!"

 

"V" nodded and smiled again.  "I know that," she replied.  "And I appreciate it.  But it's not the same."

 

Not truly hearing what she was saying, I suggested, "We can fill up the feeders so that you can watch the birds eat again, especially the cardinals in winter..."

 

"It's not the same," she repeated, and I waited for her explanation before piping in any more unwanted enthusiasm.  "I used to be able to do all these things for myself," "V" explained, a bit of a sparkle present in her eyes.  "Like feeding the birds," again, she pointed to the bare spot on the back deck.  "But now that I can't walk out there and do it myself, I just don't want to have it done at all."

 

I heard her this time, and thought that I understood what she meant.  Just for clarification, I gently prodded, "You mean because you can't do it on your own anymore?"

 

"Yes," "V" replied.   One short, simple, immensely powerful word.

 

Silence hung in the air again, but this time, not quite as awkwardly.

 

My queries turned more empathic at that moment, and I softly asked "V" some additional, (hindsight being twenty-twenty), but perhaps seemingly silly, questions. "You value your independence a great deal, don't you?  Being able to do things for yourself without having to ask others for help."

 

"Yes I do," "V" slowly shook her head in affirmation.  Her gaze shifted to her walker as she stated, "Now I just can't do the things I want to."

 

I looked at the walker again, and tried to console "V" with the rather stupid comment that "I know a lot of people who are younger than you who rely on a walker to get around."

 

Duh... I wasn't actually in the room with any of those other people, was I?  I was here to be a comforting companion to "V".  How foolish of me to throw out a generalization when it came to something as significant as one's ability to get around?

 

Before "V" was able to say anything else, I quickly added, in an immediate attempt to atone for my earlier error in judgment, "I know you don't like using that thing."  This time I pointed to the elephant in the room rather than identifying it by name.  That would be like rubbing salt into a festering wound at this point.

 

"V" sighed wearily, then acknowledged that she "knows she needs it to get around without falling."  It was as though she had given permission for her worst enemy to remain by her side.

 

My thoughts drifted to the movie we had begun watching the night before.  "How Green Was My Valley," the 1941 winner of the Academy Award for Best Picture and Director, John Ford.  As the plot progressed, unfolding with  an underlying feeling of foreboding, from a carefree, turn-of-the-century tale about a close-knit, loving family whose lives become irrevocably altered as the result of the coal mining revolution in Southern Wales, to a sorrowful story about loss, not only of human life, but of a very real youthful innocence, "V" suddenly stated, "I can't take it anymore."  Before turning the TV off, she earnestly asked me, "Does it get any better?"  Her eyes were almost pleading.  By "better", I suspected that she meant "happier."  Having seen the film before, I knew it did not get any "better" in the way she hoped it would,  and evaded the question by cleverly suggesting that we watch an episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond."  "V"s response was all too eager, and she quickly changed the channel.  "It's always good to have a laugh," she smiled.  "Yes it is," I agreed.

 

What had "V" meant, I wondered, when she said she couldn't "take it anymore?"  The phrase, along with the sorrow-filled resignation with which it was uttered, kept playing over and over in my head.

 

As our conversation over breakfast continued, I came to realize what it was that "V" couldn't "take."  It was all the loss.  The tremendous loss that occurs over the course of a lifetime, in particular, a lifetime that has gone on much longer than ever anticipated.   During which you have outlived most family members of the same generation, not to mention a myriad of close friends.  And near the end of which, you wearily succumb to the inevitable loss of some of your independence, perhaps having to rely on a walker to move about and do what you used to be fully capable of doing for yourself.

 

I tried to imagine myself in "V"s position, as I have done many times in my years as a caregiver.  Before "M" sunk deeper into her Dementia, she used to say similar things.  In a way, it was almost a blessing to watch as that devastating disease completely erased "M"s memories of her former capabilities, as well as the many people she had lost along the way, along with the independence she once valued so very proudly.

 

"V" doesn't have the benefit of a disease that robs you of your mind.   She remembers almost everything, good and bad, perhaps all too clearly.  That is why she is unable to look at old photographs of herself, or glance at her image in the mirror, or keep the lights on when she changes her clothes.   More than anything, I think she feels that she has lost herself.

 

Maybe she has.  In many different ways.  And perhaps I will as well, if I am able to live another four decades, (give or take a few years). 

 

To me, however, an inspired caregiver forty-five years her junior, I see "V" as an amazingly capable individual, successfully surviving all the storms that life steered in her direction... always with an incredible amount of grace and dignity.

 

"V"s valley may have been greener at one time, filled with a carefree spirit, youthful innocence and hope about the future, but her present is one to be relished and respected.

 

I found out a little while ago that I am going to spend an unexpected shift with "V" this evening, as her Sunday evening caregiver called out sick.  I'm glad.  I feel like our conversation this morning was left hanging in an uncomfortable way. 

 

If "V" asks me if I know how the movie ended, I will truthfully tell her "happily."   The valleys are still green.