shredburt
The Fog is Not Yet Lifted
"Jean needs more time."
That was the message today, about when her friends and family can celebrate her new apartment and life. My heart would have sunk, were it not for the glimmers of hope that were also seen this weekend, too. And there were glimmers of hope, the glimmers that set in motion Agesong's suggestion that she might be right for a little get-together.
She took a writing class, and actively participated. She enjoyed a concert in the lobby. She was less combative. Even after she walked out (and walked back in), she joked with the staff ("well, here we are again"). She eats. She sleeps. She strolls.
But glimmers are just that -- glimmers; small bits of light against a backdrop that makes them stick out. And so there is the backdrop of adjustment that looms still, and will take some time to brighten up. Glimmers are the promise of hope, but not the fulfillment of the promise.
Would Jean be Jean if she were to sink comfortably into that which was set out for her? Would she be the person we love if she had placidly lived out her life in Chicago, or passively stayed married to Walt Merritt? To expect her to go easily would be to change the very fiber of who she is; it's what we want for her, but it's not what we expected from her. And she's giving us what we expect. Fire. Brimstone.
So, we're on her clock. We wait out the fire, standing far back enough that we don't become fuel for it. And we hang on to the glimmers. Moments ago (at 5:15pm) I got a text image from one of the community members, showing Jean, sandwiched between two men, listening to music. She wasn't looking excited, but she was out of her apartment and surrounded by company, both of which are more than she might have on a given day at home. These are the things that reassure me, but sadly, the reassurances are far too infrequent right now.
It breaks my heart. Without the support of people who know -- even better than I do -- that she needs to be out of her home, I might well be me sneaking up to her room and whisking her back home to her dirty, dusty, cluttered, memory-filled cavern of anguish. At least it would make her feel a little bit better for a short time. It's not a solution that's real, however. It works in the moment, like a drink to an alcoholic, but it doesn't solve the real problem.
So, what to do now? The Agesong staff has suggested that they need a few more days with her. They have instructed me to get Robert to be more actively pushing her toward activities. Rather than a party, we may start asking her friends to select an activity they would like to do as part of the group, and come to do those things. It's hard to stay away, and hard to know that coming to visit could cause more anger, depression, and frustration. We are between that proverbial rock and hard place and we have to trust that the road she's on will straighten out.
Tomorrow is another day. Jean has spent the last 80 years fine tuning who she is. It may well take another few days for her to unlearn a bit of that.
The Fog is Not Yet Lifted
"Jean needs more time."
That was the message today, about when her friends and family can celebrate her new apartment and life. My heart would have sunk, were it not for the glimmers of hope that were also seen this weekend, too. And there were glimmers of hope, the glimmers that set in motion Agesong's suggestion that she might be right for a little get-together.
She took a writing class, and actively participated. She enjoyed a concert in the lobby. She was less combative. Even after she walked out (and walked back in), she joked with the staff ("well, here we are again"). She eats. She sleeps. She strolls.
But glimmers are just that -- glimmers; small bits of light against a backdrop that makes them stick out. And so there is the backdrop of adjustment that looms still, and will take some time to brighten up. Glimmers are the promise of hope, but not the fulfillment of the promise.
Would Jean be Jean if she were to sink comfortably into that which was set out for her? Would she be the person we love if she had placidly lived out her life in Chicago, or passively stayed married to Walt Merritt? To expect her to go easily would be to change the very fiber of who she is; it's what we want for her, but it's not what we expected from her. And she's giving us what we expect. Fire. Brimstone.
So, we're on her clock. We wait out the fire, standing far back enough that we don't become fuel for it. And we hang on to the glimmers. Moments ago (at 5:15pm) I got a text image from one of the community members, showing Jean, sandwiched between two men, listening to music. She wasn't looking excited, but she was out of her apartment and surrounded by company, both of which are more than she might have on a given day at home. These are the things that reassure me, but sadly, the reassurances are far too infrequent right now.
It breaks my heart. Without the support of people who know -- even better than I do -- that she needs to be out of her home, I might well be me sneaking up to her room and whisking her back home to her dirty, dusty, cluttered, memory-filled cavern of anguish. At least it would make her feel a little bit better for a short time. It's not a solution that's real, however. It works in the moment, like a drink to an alcoholic, but it doesn't solve the real problem.
So, what to do now? The Agesong staff has suggested that they need a few more days with her. They have instructed me to get Robert to be more actively pushing her toward activities. Rather than a party, we may start asking her friends to select an activity they would like to do as part of the group, and come to do those things. It's hard to stay away, and hard to know that coming to visit could cause more anger, depression, and frustration. We are between that proverbial rock and hard place and we have to trust that the road she's on will straighten out.
Tomorrow is another day. Jean has spent the last 80 years fine tuning who she is. It may well take another few days for her to unlearn a bit of that.