Lately, I have so many thoughts running through my brain that I was basically accomplishing nothing. It is to the point that I am having more trouble concentrating on any one thing. I could not even write a blog entry last week. I will try to organize my thoughts so they may make sense. Lately, I was feeling totally useless. (Yes, I know I am not.)
Part of the problem was going through all the toolboxes. My father taught me how to do things rather than just doing them for me. When he died, I kept every tool. I also spent a lot of time with tools with my husband as well. He was a recreational racecar driver and I was often the only one on his crew. So, when he died last year, I kept every darned one of his tools. Plus, I had built up a hefty tool kit of my own.
Finally attempting to sort through them quickly became one of those tasks that is too overwhelming for someone with FTD to deal with so I stopped, deciding to ignore it, once again. This was followed by more little things that I struggled with all week... difficult things, you know, like signing onto Zoom, starting the dishwasher, getting dressed...
All these little things just kept piling up until I was convinced I could not handle anything. So I did nothing. After many days, I had to convince myself to get moving, to just do something little. I chose to find some books that would fill an empty spot on a shelf. Out to the garage again to go through yet more stuff. I spotted a box that I didn't remember at all. By the number of mover stickers on it, it was obviously not opened much, if at all. I pulled it out and was overwhelmed by what was in there.
It seems my husband was a secret packrat! I found artwork from my daughter as a child, all his original Hardy Boys books and more. Right on top though, was a book I did not remember at all. It was titled, "Mrs. Mike." I do remember being called that many, many times and I finally remembered the book. While racing at Watkins Glen, Mike had to run into town for something. When he got back, it was clear he had visited one of the antique stores. He had a couple really nice things for our daughter and the old book for me. I guess I looked disappointed because I clearly remember him saying, "But, it really is about you..." I do not remember seeing it at all after that.
Instead of putting it directly on the shelf, I decided to read the book. It was written in 1947 and was about a very strong and courageous woman. She moved to the Northern Territories which seemed to be akin to the US back at the turn of the century. It had nothing to do with dementia, but it told of, not only her own survival and how she helped everyone around her.. She fought for the underdogs and stood up for anyone unable to do so for themselves.
My goodness, that was a lot like me! I could have done what she did, as long as I had heat and air conditioning, modern medicine. You know, the necessities of life. I know Mike didn't read the book in that antique store. I am guessing the salesperson told him the story and that he didn't just buy it because I was "Mrs. Mike." (I actually kind of resented when people called me that. I was, and always had been, my own person not just an appendage of someone else.)
Then, a couple days later, it is Father's Day. Skipping ahead to the few years before he died, Dad called me "His Crutch" because he relied on me for so many things he could no longer do. I was happy to help him. Dad did not have dementia but he did have a brain tumor and he never agreed to surgery because he could not be given a 100% chance it would go perfectly and with no new limitations. Yep, I definitely got my stubbornness from him. Being the independent cuss that he was, it weighed on him that he had to lean on me for support. Thus, the "crutch."
The book and remembering this about my dad both hit me like a brick and woke me up. I am not useless and I will keep fighting for myself and for everyone who has FTD in their life. I may struggle more and more to do it, but I will.
Mike, thank you for the gift. Dad, Happy Father's Day. I love and miss both of you, so much more than I ever thought I would.
