I’m a sentimental sap of the highest degree. I’m not materialistic, but certain silly “things” are so important to me. Today, I went over to Mitzi and Gary’s house and traded a bag of Gary’s favorite gummy bears for these treasures. Actually, I didn’t even have to barter; he had them waiting for me because he knew they were so important to me.
I can’t tell you how many times in the last 3 years I would look to my right and see any and all of these items in that spot in my van. Her seat has seemed so empty since the last time she rode with me the Friday before Mother’s Day weekend; before she broke her hip.
The valley of Alzheimer’s is full of emotional, tear-filled moments, and, since Mitzi and I spent so many hours driving around town, I always kept boxes of Kleenex within easy reach. She would often just hold my right hand if she was especially upset, generally at traffic lights, but occasionally, I’d just have to put my one-handed driving skills to the test. Sometimes, it would be too difficult to drive and I’d just pull into a parking lot or a park and we’d sit and I’d listen patiently as she would try to talk until the tears subsided.
Regardless, as I pulled out of Mitzi’s familiar driveway today, like I’ve done hundreds and hundreds of times, glancing over at these priceless favorite items from my friend, I sort of lost it. And I had to pull over. There was no one to give me a tissue or take my hand. But I was so very grateful to have these silly trinkets.
While we were at Hospice, they used this heart pillow, turned upside down to position Mitzi’s head. It really was a genius idea for a neck pillow and so cute and simple. (Heart pillows are also an awesome shape for heart surgery patients to hug because they fit perfectly in the person’s arms.) A church group, I believe, sews these hearts and donates them for patients in Hospice. I decided that I would commission one of my super sewing savvy friends to make a heart pillow out of Mitzi’s favorite fleece jacket full of “happy colors,” as she’d say. I’ll keep it in the van in her seat so I can smile as I glance over every so often. I put Mitzi’s water bottle in the passenger door’s cup holder, where it often was. No one else used that one but her anyway. You never know when you might need to have a water bottle handy. And her Hollywood Goggles, as I called them, (which made her laugh every single time), those are up high in my van’s built-in sunglass holder as my spare pair.
I won’t always need those things with me. I know that. I remember when my grandmother (who had Alzheimer’s) moved from our home in 2011 and I couldn’t repaint the wall in her room for a very long time because it had the outline from where the small dry erase board was. Every night, when I’d tuck her in, I’d write the following day’s date, events, and weather on that board. Erasing it each evening left a residue on the wall around it. It took a long time, but I finally decided I could paint that wall and no longer need to look at that faint black square outline. Grief changes over time, and eventually, the crutches that get you through the hardest things become less and less “necessary.” For now, though, I’m so very grateful that Gary didn’t think it was too silly and honored my request to have these tangible bits of my Mitzi Memories. ????
