Wallowing . . .

Why is it that I can keep myself so busy, yet feel so profoundly lonely? My therapist encouraged me today, "Stay busy. Do things for yourself. Live your life." And I do, but there's still this hollow ache inside, a nagging voice that whispers, “You’re all by yourself. You have no one. You’re lonely.” 

Am I wallowing in self-pity? It definitely appears that way, at times. After all, I have so much to be thankful for that other caregivers do not. I have children who care about me, a network of wonderful friends who encourage me, and the luxury of time to care for myself; to keep myself healthy, physically fit, and mentally alert. Financially, I’m comfortable. There’s no bill collector at my door. I have everything I need and more. And my every waking hour isn’t devoted to my husband’s needs. Someone else is taking care of him. I only get to do the “fun” stuff. Yet, whenever I come home at the end of the day, after a whirlwind of activity, I feel this unmistakable slump.

 

My home greets me with silence; the kind of silence that presses down like an iron pillow. Suffocating the "light" out of me. There are no sounds echoing between my four walls, but my own voice as I catch myself talking to Oreo, or even to myself, hoping to fill the empty space. The only footsteps I hear are mine, as I wander from room to room, listening to the tap, tap, tap of my steps on the white pine floor. Perhaps if I walk long enough, I'll convince myself I’m not alone.

 

I wish I could explain these feelings, even to myself. It doesn’t make sense, especially after a full day. I’ve been to breakfast with friends, spent time writing with friends, and even laughed with friends over a game of pinocle. I came home, took Oreo over to the park for a long, brisk walk, and snacked on sharp cheese and fresh grapes. Good friends, good food, and good exercise. What could be missing?

It's been nearly two years since Bill moved into a care home, and "Father Time" continues to tick by, both quickly and slowly, all at once. But the feeling of loneliness lingers on. It’s like I’m waiting . . . but waiting for what? Am I waiting for news that he’s improved? That’s unrealistic. Am I waiting to hear that he’s had a good day? That’s always good news. Or am I waiting to hear that’s he’s declined and only has a short time left? Could I be so callous that I’m willing to rush the inevitable just so I can move on. The thought definitely lurks in the background of my mind, if I’m honest. And that makes me feel terrible.

 

This cycle of emotions I ride every day is exhausting. It’s like an elevator ride from the basement to the 105^thfloor, then back down again, over and over. Mostly I live somewhere in between, but the ups and downs wear me out. I’m so tired of it all. I want it to end. I want the lonely to go away. . . 

 

I shake myself off, tell myself to “put on my big girl panties,” and keep plugging away. "I do have a good life. I’m not really lonely. It's only in my head," I tell myself. "I can do this, can’t I?" 

My rational mind answers, "Yes, you can, because you have no choice. . .  That's the harsh reality of this disease called, Dementia."