Annual celebrations are difficult for me these days. It's too easy to compare how Bru is now with how he was last year on our wedding anniversary, on my birthday, on his birthday, on Thanksgiving, on Christmas. In other words, events we celebrate every year mark his decline with a peculiar clarity.
One of the mercies of dementia is that you usually can't remember clearly what it was like to be able to do something you can no longer do. It's hard to connect the past with the present in that way. You might have some notion of your former capabilities, but you can't remember exactly how you did something and compare it with your current incapacity to do the same thing. The good feeling of accomplishing something can survive without being canceled by the disappointment or grief that you can no longer do what made you feel so good.
Usually that's how it works, anyway. This past Christmastime, while I could clearly measure differences in Bru's ability to take part in the traditional activities of the season—baking, decorating, shopping for gifts and wrapping them—Bru was happily ignorant of what we'd done in the past. Everything was a surprise.
There was one thing he was anticipating, however—hosting friends for Christmas dinner.
That the dinner was a holiday celebration made no difference to him. He was just over the moon that we were having someone over for dinner. It had been over a year since this had happened, dinner parties being beyond my bandwidth these days. When I told him our friends were coming for dinner, he said, "Really? We're going to sit at the table and eat and talk and laugh? Oh, that's wonderful!"
It surprised me how clear his expectations were, and I was happy that he was excited about something. (I also felt guilty that I hadn't made more of an effort to have people over.)
And at Christmas, we did sit at the table with two dear friends and we did eat and talk and laugh. At least, three of us did. Bru was very quiet, and I was so wrapped up in the demands of hospitality that I didn't notice right away. He got up at one point and brought a photographic book to the table. We all looked at it and were very appreciative of it, but Bru didn't say much about it. I gave some background information about the book and told the story of when Bru bought it. One of our guests was very taken with it and will probably buy a copy for herself. Bru ate quietly for a while, and then he wandered off again.
I followed him a few minutes later and asked if he was OK. He said no. "I wanted to talk about that book."
I said I was sorry and invited him to come back. "We're all interested in what you want to say. I'll be sure to give you time to talk all you want."
"No," he said with a slow shake of his head. "I don't think I can."
He wasn't frustrated like he gets when he can't find the words to say what he means. He was mostly bemused and, underneath that, deeply disappointed.
He didn't know what he wanted to say. He knew there was something, once upon a time, that was important to him about that book. But he couldn't think of it now.
It broke my heart, not only that his joyful anticipation was disappointed, but that he was aware of the disappointment.
He has always been accepting of his limitations, and he accepted this with admirable grace. We came back to the table with another book, one that was handy because he had just found it under the Christmas tree that morning. It was one I knew our friends would appreciate as well. He also brought a funny greeting card that he had been giggling about all day.
With the help of the good company of our friends, I moved through the rest of dinner and dessert with good humor and gratitude. Bru did not exactly enjoy himself, but I think he felt some satisfaction in the good conversation and the laughter of others.
I didn't cry until later, until the dishes were washed and Bru had gone to sleep. I'm grateful Bru was spared my grief.