Haunted

I am haunted not by ghosts, 

but by the weight of a body that used to be Velcro-d to me, 

my shadow, my constant— 

and then for three months barely touched me, 

as if he was already practicing leaving. 

By thinking I had more time. 

By how quickly that time was stripped away, 

how three months could feel so long 

and still nowhere near enough. 

By watching him decline— 

slow enough to break me daily, 

fast enough to leave me stunned. 

By not sleeping for months, 

listening for breaths, 

counting seconds in the dark. 

I am haunted by the way he breathed 

on that last day— 

every rise a question, every fall a warning 

I didn’t want to hear. 

By the red dot that stayed still. 

By the way he couldn’t play, 

and the way my heart sank 

because I knew what that meant 

before I was ready to admit it. 

By the appointment I made 

with shaking hands and voice, 

putting a time on goodbye, 

choosing a day to end a love 

that never once chose to leave me. 

By having to walk out the door 

to go to a meeting while he was dying, 

the world asking me to be professional 

while my soul stayed home 

on the floor with him. 

By the prayer I cried in the car on the way home, 

pleading with Heavenly Father— 

please don’t make me do this, please— 

and listing everything I loved about my boy 

like it might tip the scales, 

like love might buy us mercy. 

By the ivy. 

By the way he laid down in it, 

the way I reached for him, 

said his name, and felt the moment 

his breath stopped answering me. 

By picking up his limp body, 

holding him while the words fell out of me— 

“oh, bubba”— 

as if saying it enough 

could bring him back inside himself. 

By bringing him home 

one last time. 

By seeing my dad cry more and harder 

than I have ever seen him cry, 

grief breaking through 

places I thought were unbreakable. 

By placing my baby in the ground. 

By the silence afterward. 

By only having Vivien with me that night, 

learning how loud loneliness can be 

when love has nowhere to go. 

By being told a week later 

that Vivien may have cancer too— 

as if grief wasn’t done with me, 

as if it needed to prove it could still take more. 

I am haunted by the thought 

that I could have been better, 

that I should have known more, 

done more, seen it sooner. 

By the quiet voice that asks 

what if I missed something, 

what if loving harder 

could have saved him— 

even when everyone tells me 

I was the best dog mom, 

even when I know 

I gave him everything I had, 

the doubt still lingers, 

soft but relentless, 

loving him the only way I know how— 

by hurting. 

I am haunted by the dreams I had for him— 

him in my wedding photos, 

somehow knowing it mattered, 

standing close like he always did. 

By the picture of him playing with my kids, 

woven into a life he was supposed to be part of. 

He was meant to be there. 

And by the way I wake up 

every day and pretend everything is okay. 

By the way I move through my life 

carrying all of this quietly, 

smiling when I’m expected to, 

functioning while haunted. 

I am haunted 

because I loved completely. 

Because he mattered. 

Because he was my boy. 

And love like that doesn’t leave— 

it stays, even when the body doesn’t. 

Now I look for faint rainbows, 

the kind most people don’t see. 

Not the arched promises 

painted loud across the sky, 

but a soft place in the clouds, 

a barely-there shimmer— 

a quiet spot of color 

he sends just for me. 

I don’t point it out. 

I don’t need proof. 

I just stand there, breathing, 

beautifully haunted 

by the memories of him— 

letting myself believe 

that love can still find me, 

that somehow, he does too.

Until I Remembered

This week is Dementia Action Week. It is a UK holiday, but I recently learned about it at a conference I attended. I think it is valuable to spread awareness. Dementia affects about 10% of adults ages 65+ in the United States. It jumps to about a third of adults who reach 90+. And, the worst statistic yet, those stats are expected to double by 2060 as the population ages. I have watched my grandpa battle this disease. Watching his bright mind literally die slowly over time has been so hard. So, below is something I wrote that I hope helps raise awareness. 

My grandpa used to tell us stories about faraway places, mythical creatures, adventures. His stories would be colored by friends, headless snakes that would swim away, giant roaring animals in the woods, airplane engines exploding, his father going out with 12 bullets but coming back with 13 squirrels, telephone wires going along for miles along beautiful landscape, and palaces he would see from the sky. 

Grandpa would tell us stories...until he forgot. 

Grandpa would wind up his clock. It would chime every fifteen minutes marking the time. At first, when I would spend the night it would keep me awake chiming so often, but over time (ironic, I know), I grew accustomed to it's steady cadence that reminded me so much of the one who cared for it. 

My grandpa would wind up his clock...until he forgot. 

My grandpa would put up his flag each and every day, proud to be an American and represent the country he fought for and served. It would fly high and proud each day in his front yard, its bright colors shining as the sun's rays would shine down and the wind would make it fly. 

My grandpa would fly his flag...until he forgot. 

My grandpa would whistle while he was working or walking or just happy to be around. He would whistle well known tunes or something he made up on the spot. We always knew where he was as he whistled around the corner with his lungs that never seemed to run out of air. 

My grandpa would whistle...until he forgot. 

My grandpa would work all day making things with his hands. Some of the most beautiful pieces came out of his shed, but memories were made there as well. When he wasn't woodworking, he was doing home improvements, or keeping his mind active as he calculated the time or distance it would take to get to a random spot on the map often doing the math all in his head. 

My grandpa would work...until he forgot. 

My grandpa would call me by name and be able to pick me out of a crowd. He would tell me about when I was a baby or call me to come over to him so he could show me a piece of the world that he found to be interesting. 

My grandpa knew my name...until he forgot. 

It made me so sad to think of all of the stories he would never tell again. All of the things I would never know about him or his life as they got swallowed up in the darkness of his mind.  

I was sad...until I remembered he always kept the most important story of all tucked away. He remembered Christ and His love. In prayers he would ask that we always remember who we were and what we were. We are children of God, and he knew that. I know that too. 

I was upset with all that time had taken from me. The grandpa I grew up was becoming a more and more distant memory as it went on. Time had made his memories fuzzy, with the same bits and muddled pieces of stories often being told over and over again. 

I was upset...until I remembered time actually does heal all wounds even if not the way I would like or expect. I would be able to read the stories he recorded for us. I would be able to look back at all of the pictures we took where he got in my little tent with me or climbed on a bronze bear with Ryan and me. I would have the memories of all of the trips we took together and all of the fun we had. I had stories to tell as well. 

I was disappointed when we would drive up to his house with an empty flagpole. It was just one more thing to remind me of how much he had changed. He probably didn't even know where the flag was kept anymore. 

I was disappointed...until I remembered that he was the one who taught me to love my country and its flag but more importantly to always look up. I would look up, past the empty flagpole to the big blue sky. To see the birds or look at the different clouds or the specific color of blue our world was that day. He taught me to see the beauty in the world around me, and that is always something I will carry with me. 

I had a deep longing to hear him whistling again. Oh, how I missed that sound! 

I had a longing...until I remembered my brother could whistle as well. This wasn't something I would have to live entirely without. Any time I hear my brother whistle or I even hear a bird whistling away I would think of my grandpa and smile. 

I worried he tried to do too much sometimes. He would come out to work in the yard during the heat of the day or he would want to go somewhere that I worried would be too far or a step would be too big. 

I worried...until I remembered all he had done in his life. Unfortunately, no matter how old you get the work is never done. He would often forget what he was doing not too far in, so I didn't have to worry for long. And, as we would continue to work he would always tell us how much he appreciated us for doing whatever it was (after letting us know he had planned on coming out and doing it later). 

I was hurt that he forgot my name. Hurt that greetings were not individualized anymore, and sometimes he even believed me to be his youngest daughter, Diana. 

I was hurt...until I remembered he still held that deep love for me. A name is just a name, but love lasts forever. And, there are MUCH worse things than being thought to be my Aunt Diana whom I adore. He always knew he loved me even when he couldn't recognize my face or remember my name. He still gives me those tight hugs as I go to leave, even as his strength wanes. He still looks at me with his eyes with rings of color like bullseyes, and I see nothing but love that has transcended all of this. 

The symbol for Dementia Action Week is a forget me not flower. In the UK people wear them much like we wear various colored ribbons in the US for cancer awareness. Here is my forget me not, a badge to always remember what dementia has taken from me and so many others around the world as well as remember how I can carry on my grandpa's stories and legacy. I "wear" it proudly for my grandpa.