Things I don't want to forget

As Casper is fading from this life I find myself sitting next to her and remembering a thousand little things I don't want to ever forget. I pulled out the things for the memorial service DVD yesterday and more came to mind. I printed pictures for her sister and  memories  flooded back. I awakened somehow thinking that she was waking me with my perfect cup of coffee today- only to find I was on the couch with two cats and a stiff neck, and bed head from the scary side. I would have made Phyllis Diller proud!  This one is personal, so bear with me.

 

The first time I met Casper she scared me. I had a habit of meeting new hospice staff at the door and showing them pictures of Linda so they would know who Linda was and had been, not see her as a diagnosis in a bed. Once I was sure about them, I usually wasn't there when they arrived, because Linda was cognizant and could discuss her needs better than I could. She lied about how well she was doing and using her walker, but they knew that. They were, after all, all nurses.

 

So there I was at the door, and a big black SUV rolls up. Casper got out- all dressed in black. Shirt (ironed long sleeves with crisp edges), black pants, black belt, black tennis shoes. She carefully put on a crisp white lab coat, from the back of the SUV that had actual drawers arranged across the back filled with supplies. As we shook hands she said "It's the Man in Black's birthday today." Huh? Who? "I'm Casper. I'm Linda's nurse today. You don't know the Man in Black? Johnny Cash?" She had the Casper look- stern with a twist of smile- and puzzlement. I backed up and let her in feeling stupid and a little disoriented. Our usual nurse was all fluff and rhinestones and kind of like Barbie with a nurse backbone. Holistic and wholesome. That would not be Casper. 

When we got upstairs she was all business- but she had a special connection to Linda immediately. Linda lied about using her walker, and Casper noted she couldn't have used it if it was across the room. There was a moment about how Linda might not like it but she needed it. There were notes made of recent bruises- proof of naughtiness. And then there was that "tell it like it is and deal with it" that both of them had. Linda relaxed. Finally. By the time that visit ended Casper was perched on the bed next to her, they were holding hands, and both were smiling. I was told by both of them that they could manage it and I could go back to work. I was dismissed. I was relieved.

 

What I didn't know was that Casper was just as scared of me as I was of her. Last week the truth finally came out- under the influence of morphine and other drugs, Casper told me she thought I was scary but cute, and she thought Linda was a very lucky woman to have had all those years with me. While other staff who came and went told Linda to eat healthy foods, Casper got her M&M's and ice cream. She helped her talk through her fears. She came on lunch hours (Casper never took lunch hours) and hung out with her as a friend. She helped Linda and Linda talked to her about love and commitment and finding a relationship that was healthy and good and loving for Casper. They compared notes on Southern dads and nursing. Linda told her she always trusted nurses who started as LVN's because they knew what real nursing was and were not afraid to get their hands dirty. She offered Casper her nursing books as she worked on her RN. It gave Linda a sense of purpose. I never want to forget the help she brought that took Linda to another level of peace about her death. The look of calm on her face as Linda was dying- that kept me centered and able to focus on the kids and Linda. The watchfulness she especially had for Kerry that day. The tears in her eyes when it was over. There was a continuous care nurse there that day, but Casper stayed the whole time, just as Linda asked her to. I was surprised and touched that she showed up for her memorial service and interment- and that the rest of the family remembered her and spotted her- she'd made an impact on them as well.

 

There were text messages afterward- just checking up on me. When we met for dinner Casper was careful- this was just a possible maybe kind of sort of friendship as a hospice follow-up. Except she kept apologizing for being in work clothes. Then when we sat down for dinner, hospice staff popped up. And joined us. That was the very first time I ever say the full Casper scowl or heard the growl. Fortunately, it wasn't for me. Unfortunately, it didn't run anyone off.

 

Our romance was careful, cautious, secret. I was, after all, supposed to be a grieving widow. And you know what? I was. I still am, actually. Enjoying having someone holding your hand or holding you tight doesn't mean you miss any less. It means you are not doing it alone. And with Casper it meant she was also missing Linda right along with me. It kept Linda's memory alive and present, in a comforting way. When I laid her headstone, Casper was there, with her arm, respectfully, around me. When I needed to visit and cry, she met me there. But on Memorial Day and Veteran's Day she insisted that the kids go with me and without her so they could honor her memory and service.

 

I had to pass muster with Kathy and Mary and the office "girls." I am not sure they knew they were giving approval, but I was warned that the hospice crew was afraid for Casper. My friends were afraid for me. Nobody but nobody thought this was a good idea. And then there was that look of calm, and reassurance, and a special kind of love in Casper's eyes (baby blue, by the way)and I was okay. We both passed muster. I want to remember that feeling of calm as we relaxed into knowing we were okay and right and that our hands fit together. I want to remember the look on her face when she looked at me- kind of a surprised sparkle in a most romantic way.

 

I don't want to forget a text message during a week when I was trying to do too much for too many too soon after Linda's death. Apparently I am a bit of a control queen and a bit hyper in getting stuff done (who knew?). As I was trying to explain all that needed doing, what the kids needed that day and night, etc, etc, etc, Casper sent me a text- "How long has it been since you had strong arms around you, holding you, letting you be taken care of?" That was the same day I was heading for a massage and had been thinking I was probably not going to be touched much anymore- I was going to have to pay someone to rub my shoulders. That is indeed a lousy feeling.

 

We met in secret so as not to upset our watchers. We changed names on cell phones so nosy kids would not realize who was calling or texting. We snuck away from work to meet behind Starbucks every morning. We entertained the creepy tow truck driver who started showing up at the same time every day and always parked right next to our cars. I'll bet not many people noticed that the top of our cupcake tower at our (first) wedding had two Starbucks cupcakes... Even now, in the worst of the dementia and fear and confusion I can say "Starbucks kiss" and there is some flicker of recognition. Sometimes there is more than that! And always Casper was careful. She wanted to never disrespect Linda's memory or the kids' feelings. When I ended up in the hospital she would not stay overnight when I got home even when friends asked her to - she didn't want the kids to see her in our bedroom. She almost ran when my mom arrived to check on me (along with the rest of the crowd) and saw her standing next to the bed.

 

And when we finally became an official "us" she continued to treat me like a princess. After years of caregiving, I was always awakened by hot coffee with exactly the right cream and sweetener. My clothes were ironed and hanging up waiting for me. I learned what it meant to be a butch in North Carolina- even though we are in California. My door was always opened for me. I was taken care of. I was to be protected. If I went out running before dawn I was either followed or called. If I wasn't home on time I was called for safety. There were rules- but they were good ones. I miss them now. Tremendously. I walk out of my office at night in the dark and Casper isn't calling to walk me out by phone. It's lonely already. I see someone holding a loved one's hand. It hurts. I need to start running again for my own health- but Casper won't be worrying about me. Right now she is delusional, and getting closer to death. Still loving when she knows me, and still with those baby blues- but not for long.

 

I never want to forget the look on her face when she first saw the whales in Hawaii. She loved those magnificent creatures, and could sit for hours watching them. She even loved being in the ocean, watching them share the water with us. Did I mention Casper never learned to swim and is afraid of being in water? I don't want to lose my memory of her smile when she had a Hawaiian shave ice in her hand. Always the biggest one. Always three flavors with ice cream and cream. Frequently twice a day. I'll truly never forget the look on her face when she arrived at our house when it was still "my" house, and the kids were gone. It was probably 105 degrees and there was nobody home. I'd dropped my clothes and dived in. Casper came through the gate later as I was swimming laps and stared. Puzzled. "Did you forget your drawers?" 

 

I never want to forget how my Casper became a parent to three girls, who sometimes did not want another parent, but who would call her late at night while I was still at work with some need. Despite not wanting to drive at night Casper would drive from Redlands to Riverside. I would come home and find her car out front- and none of the four of them had called me! Of course, when I walked her out all of them followed and we had three teenage chaperones to make sure we were "just friends." I'll never forget her tremendous support when we had serious issues with all three girls and her ability to calm them down- not to mention me.

 

Most importantly I never want to forget the feeling of those very strong, very butch, very loving arms around me, protecting me, making my world happy again for a while. I want to hold on to the sound of her voice telling me she loved me, and that she was always going to be mine. I want to hold her smile in my heart, not these last months of confusion and sadness and loss- although they are important too. And I will always hold onto the determination she had to make me her princess one last time at our wedding- and how hard she had to work to get there. Her smile that day will be in my heart as we face what's coming.