IT IS St Valentine’s Day, and also – because 53 years ago we were a pair of romantic fools – our wedding anniversary.
But if I have recalled this landmark, James - despite the large clock next to him which spells out the time and the date - sadly has not.
Indeed it is not only our wedding he has forgotten, but his bride, because he calls me “the other Georgina” – the woman who cares for him but is not necessarily his wife.
Despite this however I do have a single rose sitting in a stem glass next to me as I type – sadly not the result of any romantic impulse on James’ part, but a souvenir of his visit to a dementia day club yesterday.
I have been looking for one for some time in order to secure a few free hours a week, but the only local one doesn’t offer ‘personal care’ – which seems an odd oversight as I presume virtually all dementia patients will eventually need help.
A second possibility was a day centre at a nearby residential home which seemed ideal.
It is a short distance from home, and at the point when James needs more care than I can give him, it would have been somewhere familiar where he knew the staff, which would make any transition easier.
But having shilly-shallied for a year over whether or not to reopen post Covid, they have finally given the idea a firm thumbs down.
Forced to spread my net wider, I discovered a day club in a neighbouring village which has a vacancy - which is how I found myself a week ago stroking the back of a carved wooden frog with a stick, in time to the familiar tune of When the Saints Come Marching In...
The frog, when massaged along its ridged spine, made precisely the noise one would expect a frog to make, and I found myself unexpectedly intrigued by this sculptural embodiment of onomatopoeia
And beside me James and his companions-in-dementia sang out happily, and banged along on drums, triangles and tambourines.
It was a kindly atmosphere – although tact made me wary of presuming which of the two dozen or so strangers were ‘customers’, so to speak, and which their equally grey-haired ‘minders’.
On the way home James said he had enjoyed our brief visit, and agreed to go for a repeat session over lunch yesterday to see how he would cope without me there.
Sadly by the time we arrived he had forgotten all about it - and judging by the relief which flooded his face at the sight of me arriving to pick him up, I realised that perhaps it had not been an unqualified success.
James had eaten his lunch, I was told, but had been “quiet”.
So he will be going back for another short visit again next week - although by then he will inevitably be starting again from scratch.
Indeed he had already forgotten anything he had done by the time I questioned him, clutching his rose, on the way home.
His responses echoed those my little sons gave 50 years ago whenever I asked what they had done at school - a question always answered with “can’t ’member...”
But nevertheless I have cooked an anniversary feast to mark the day and cracked open a bottle of pink fizz - and we are just toasting ourselves when Number 1 son rings to congratulate us.
“Have you checked your doorstep recently?” he asks, laughing, and I swing the front door open to reveal not one, but two parcels waiting enticingly in the dark.
“I’ll put you on speakerphone while I open them,” I tell him, tackling the long flat parcel to reveal a pretty bouquet of pink and white flowers, and a card saying, in his father’s place, Happy Anniversary darling, love James...
I bite back the tears and turn eagerly to the second square light box.
Chocolates? I wonder, giving it a gentle shake.
Well as it turned out not...
It was the latest consignment of James’ catheter bags.
But once I had recovered from my initial stab of disappointment I realised they were – in their own way – quite as welcome as the flowers…
You are in my thoughts . 🙏🏽
I have heart tugs and giggles at the same time..
Happy Anniversary 🌹