I regard writing my weekly blog as giving my readers a window on my world.  Most of the time I try to keep my posts light and breezy, but this week I’m seeing a lot of dark clouds both literally and figuratively.  The Seattle area is in the midst of another “atmospheric river.”  The good thing about rain is that eventually it stops and the sun comes back out.  The figurative clouds don’t disperse as easily.

Several weeks ago, in my post entitled Storytelling Magic, I talked about the movie Mary Poppins and how, in 1964 and in honor of Little Sister’s Day at Pima Hall, our college dorm, a friend named Sharon Jane Brown and I took our two little sisters, both named Evelyn, to see the movie. It was a special experience for all of us.  After writing the post, I sent a note to my sister about it and a text to Sharon.  I don’t have an email address for her—just a phone number for sending texts.

Yesterday afternoon, my phone rang.  When I answered, the person on the other end of the line said, “Who is this?”  That seemed strange because usually the person doing the calling knows who he or she is calling, but because the phone indicated where the call originated, and since Sharon and her husband are the only people I know living there, I realized the caller had to be my college friend.  “It’s me,” I answered, “Judy Busk Jance from Pima Hall.”

“Pima Hall?” she asked, sounding puzzled.

“You know,” I said.  “Our college dorm.”

“Oh,” she said.  “That’s right.  Pima Hall.  Where are you living now?”

“In the Seattle area, with my husband, Bill.”

“Do I know him?”

“You met him several years ago at the Pima Hall reunion in Tucson.”

“Oh, I remember that.  It was fun.  Are you still writing books?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you remember years ago when you first started writing books and you had me read them to see if there was anything wrong?  What’s that called again, being an editor?”

“I think it’s called being a proofreader,” I told her, but the truth is, I didn’t remember that.  In college we used to proofread each other’s papers, but when I started writing books, she wasn’t anywhere nearby.

She sounded like the Sharon Jane I knew—cheerful, chipper, upbeat.  She went on to tell me about her wonderful husband, Cleb. They married in 1966, shortly after we all graduated from college, so they’re coming up on their sixtieth anniversary.  Bill and I will celebrate our thirty-ninth on Saturday of this week.

“Well,” she said.  “We’ve got the drop on you there.  But Cleb is wonderful.  He does all the cooking and he looks after me while I mostly work in the garden.  We’ve got a huge back yard—a beautiful back yard.”  And then, after that, the conversation took a turn and went back to the beginning.  

“Who are you again?” she asked, and we went through the whole dialogue again—the same questions, the same answers—three more times over the course of a phone call that lasted all of sixteen minutes.  When the call ended, I was exhausted and heartsick.

People who have dealt with Alzheimer’s up close and personal recognize this for what it is.  I’ve heard the term, yes, but without any real life experience to back it up.  If that broken record phone call was enough to wear me out, what must life be like for Cleb, living with that on a daily, round-the-clock basis?  My heart aches for him, more than it does for her.  She has no idea!  He’s her caregiver.  He loves her, but he’s lost his wife, just as I’ve lost my friend. 

Today, while I was getting my steps, I was thinking about the time shortly after I moved to Seattle when Sharon and her young  son, Kevin, came to visit.  He was around four at the time, and when she told him they were going to Seattle, he decided in all his pre-school wisdom that they were going to see someone NAMED Attle! 

I love that story.  I wish I could share it with Sharon, but she wouldn’t remember any of it.  And I can’t share it with Cleb, either, because it would probably only break his heart that much more.  So I’m just going to shut my mouth and keep the whole family in my thoughts and prayers. That’s the best I can do.

Sorry to be a Debbie Downer on your Friday morning, but the clouds outside my window really are dark today, and it occurs to me that turning eighty isn’t for the faint of heart.