Free Download and Excerpt of The Grapes of Dementia: My Journey of Love, Loss, Surrender, and Gratitude
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Here’s the free excerpt . . .
I sit on the floor in my study, piles of paperwork scattered about, surrounding me. The wind howls. It’s late autumn, the sun has already set, and a winter storm revs up. They say there could be two feet of snow on the ground by the time the blizzard is over.
Meanwhile, I have a week’s worth of mail to open, papers to file, files to make, papers I need to follow up with phone calls, and papers that must be shredded. There are papers having to do with Alan’s stay at the Rose, papers from insurance companies, statements from financial institutions, bills, astrology charts, ticket stubs, schedules, and business cards. Papers, papers, papers.
Overwhelmed, I want nothing to do with any of it. I don’t want to open the mail, make the files or phone calls, don’t want to shred any of it or file any of it away. I can’t face it. I can’t bear the thought of doing any of it. I can barely look at it. Not now. Maybe not ever. I’ve had it. I’m done.
I put on some music, turn off the lights, and look out the window, watching the snow coming down sideways. I get back on the floor, spread out the papers, shuffling them about as if they were a giant deck of cards. I lie on top of the mess, all those dreadful papers, reminders of my new life with an Alan absent from much of it, and stretch, stretch, stretch my arms and legs in any direction they’ll go. And then I move my arms and legs to the music. I move as if I were making snow angels with all those white papers. I’m making snow angels. The papers go everywhere. What a mess I’m making! It’ll take hours to sort through these again, but the typically organized and orderly me doesn’t care.
I sit up and look around at the glorious mess I’ve made. Papers. I listen closer to the music: Dust in the Wind. Yes. All we are is dust in the wind, everything is dust in the wind.
Now I’m angry with Alan for getting dementia, for leaving me to handle everything alone, for not being here. And then I cry.
Inexplicably, in less than 10 seconds, it’s over. I’m cried out.
I get up, peruse the scene, take the music into my heart, laugh at the mess, close the door, and walk away, content to leave it all for another day.