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Lynda Elizabeth Jeffrey: Tiny Love Stories -- Christmas morning

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It ain’t easy being a caretaker. Immobile and in the advanced stage of dementia, my once brilliant husband is now helpless.

“It’s Christmas!” I say, getting him out of bed. No reaction. I get him settled into his La-Z-Boy chair, hand him a snack bar (food first; pills next) and then start stripping the bed sheets.

“Lynda. Help me.” I am startled to hear my name. Did my husband just call me? I pick up the dropped granola bar and give it back to him. A moment of recognition. A moment when he said my name.

Best Christmas gift ever.

Think about it. Our name is one of the strongest connections we have to our sense of identity. When I was teaching kindergarten (a job that I took delight in for 30 years), I always started the school year with the same art project: a collage featuring the names of all my students.

I wrote each child’s first name in big block letters on a piece of colorful paper. Then each student got to fill in the letters with sparkles and glitter. The caption on the class bulletin board said: “Your name is the first gift your parents gave you.”

Perhaps, we forget that hearing your name spoken by someone who loves you is also a gift. My husband has lost most of his communication skills. He makes his likes and dislikes known mostly through body language. Thumbs up or thumbs down. A wavering hand (which I interpret as “so-so”) or a huge, plastered-on smile to signal he’s happy.

I have not heard him speak in a complete sentence for years. He cannot remember the names of anyone – and that includes family and closest friends.

I often show him photos of the two of us and ask him the $64 million dollar question: “Who’s in the picture?” He usually responds by saying, “I know them.” I keep on prodding him. Pointing directly at his image in a photograph, I ask: “Who’s this?” Instead of saying, “That’s me,” he replies “It’s Curtis Plott.” “You’re right,” I say. “That’s you.”

“And who’s with you?” I ask. No answer. One more time, I fill in the blanks for him. “That’s me. That’s your wife. That’s Lynda.” These days, I am constantly playing the role of coach. I’m always looking for ways to help him make connections.

But on the morning of December 25th, I wasn’t just an anonymous caregiver. I was “Lynda.” It was such an unexpected gift to hear my name.
Who knows? Perhaps, when I least expect it, my husband will be calling out for “Lyndie” or “Lulu” or “Lyndarella.” Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely to hear a name of endearment once again. But, one thing’s for sure, name or no name – I’ll always be there for Curtis Ellsworth Plott.

Lynda Elizabeth Jeffrey, a native of Bucks County, now resides in Washington, D.C. A former kindergarten teacher, a freelance writer and lecturer, she is actively engaged as a Brain Health advocate. Once again, Lynda took up the challenge to write a 100-word “Tiny Love Story.”

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