Thank you to those who downloaded my free ebook. When you’ve finished, please consider leaving a review. If you didn’t download it, it’s available for purchase. And here’s another excerpt from the book.
I’m so happy that so many of you — very nearly 200 !! — got a chance to download my memoir, The Grapes of Dementia, during the most recent promotion to honor the 10-year anniversary of my husband’s passing from Alzheimer’s disease.
If you missed it, you can still purchase the book.
It’s available worldwide.
AMAZON UNIVERSAL LINK: smarturl.it/TheGrapesofDementia
AMAZON UK LINK: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01N8QYW5A
AMAZON.COM LINK: www.amazon.com/dp/B01N8QYW5
Falling deeply in love with someone, only to have to sit by helplessly as he slipped away, was the most difficult thing I’ve done. And it was also a cornerstone experience where I learned the most about how to love someone.
Here’s what one reader said about it:
I was first drawn to this book because of its title, The Grapes of Dementia: My Journey of Love, Loss, Surrender, and Gratitude. Having experienced a decade and a half of my mother’s Alzheimer’s, John Steinbeck’s dustbowl somehow seemed appropriate. But Wren Wright’s memoir has a much gentler tone, despite the fact that her husband began showing signs of early-onset dementia before their first wedding anniversary. Wren faces Alan’s memory loss, hallucinations and even moments of violence with grace. She shows the reader what it means to expand our capacity to love. Instead of abandoning Alan to his illness, she enters into it with presence and awareness, appreciating the sweetness within the grief. I was deeply moved by this unique and tender love story.
Here’s an excerpt from the book:
Going With the Flow
It’s 3:00 a.m., and I finally stop crying. The teardrops began yesterday morning. I simply started crying. Nothing in particular sparked my tears, and there was no warning. I felt no buildup. Nor did any thoughts arrive with the tsunami of emotions overwhelming me. I am in the space before thought, that place where there is no resistance.
I let it all flow — the tears, whimpers, moans, sobs, and wails. All of it. It’s better to let it emerge, to let the body dispel its sadness. When the surge of emotion began, I sat cross-legged on the couch with a box of tissues, and I cried. I moved to the dining room table, and I cried. I got up and moved to the desk in the study, and I cried. I jumped onto the bed and hugged the pillows, and I cried. I sat cross-legged in the comfy, overstuffed chair in the study, and I cried.
I went to visit Alan in the nursing home (probably not a wise move), came home and cried, starting the cycle anew. There was nothing to do but let it out. It kept coming. I soaked in my spa tub and cried into the lavender aromatherapy bath. The teardrops kept coming, my sobs singing with the water spitting from the jets, mingling with the foam.
Finally, as quickly as it started, it stopped. There are no more tears. They’re gone. Astonished, I call up more tears, but none come. I’m quiet. And I feel a little better, a little lighter, relieved.
Weary and exhausted, with nothing more to give, I crawl into bed. The comforting pressure of the blanket and the soft sheets envelope me as a cool breeze (Alan?) moves through the sheer window dressing. I run my hands through my hair, massage my face, neck, and head. And then exhausted, body pulled into a fetal position, I sleep the long dead slumber of an ancient stone. Held, cradled, showered with unconditional nurturing love, I sleep soundly for a few hours then awaken refreshed to this new day, as if all my crying had been a surreal nightmare.
To read previous excerpts:
