Every year, this particular week is one of reflection for me.
Along with Thanksgiving, I acknowledge my birthday, and that of a brother who died too young.
And once there was a wedding anniversary.
It would have been 29 years of marriage this week if my husband Richard was still with me.
I find my memories of years gone by are as warm as they are cold.
The recollections of steamy windows and turkey bastings still fill my heart, even if the details of faces around the Thanksgiving table are fading.
And birthday party gifts of little pilgrim candles still dance happily in my head, though in one a bit fuzzier.
Yet dark November commutes on icy roads driving Richard to his adult day care center in his last years still send a chill up my spine.
My Spode Christmas mug companion, lined with mistletoe and hot coffee, would turn cold as Coke by the time I’d cross the city line to New Hope each morning.
I’d try hard to be ‘of cheer’ but would fail miserably.
Typically mumbling to myself, “New Hope? How about ‘No Hope’?” as I’d drive off from the facility downtown to work.
Dementia can do that to a caregiver.
But I’ve learned there was hope back then, and perhaps there always is.
Not of a spouse recovering from an illness where there is no cure, but of a caregiver coping with acceptance, loss and finally moving forward.
I drove to the store in sunshine today to replenish my coffee supply for my Christmas mug that now rests on the kitchen counter.
As I first walked through the door, I was greeted by the scent of buckets of yellow roses and a happy clerk restocking them.
I was definitely tempted.
The price was good, but I walked on by.
I can’t just buy them for myself, I thought.
But I stopped, shifted into reverse, then picked up a bunch along with my French Roast.
Smiling at the friendly check out clerk, I said, “These are terrific! Just like the ones I held at my wedding 29 years ago today.”
I added my husband was now gone.
His face saddened some, but then he smiled as well.
I watched him attach a sticker to the cellophane wrapping.
A “paid” sticker, I thought.
“Here,” he said, handing them back to me. “No charge. Happy Anniversary!”
I admit a tear rolled down my cheek.
Ok. Maybe two.
But my gratitude far exceeded any sadness.
And isn’t that how it should be every Thanksgiving week?
I’m voting yes.