Pride in progress?

Perhaps

Q: How do you empty liquid dish soap from the rinse aid dispenser in a dishwasher?

A: With a turkey baster.

My husband can be excused for the mistake. I store bottles of dishwashing liquid and rinse agent under the kitchen sink, and both are the same colour—blue as the Adriatic Sea. (Note to self: buy a different colour of liquid dish soap from now on.) I discovered his error when I opened the dishwasher to investigate a strange, low, chugging sound near the end of a wash cycle, and found the machine brimming with soap suds.

“I just refilled the rinse thingy,” Doug explained, mystified. Quickly deducing what had happened, I tried pouring a kettle of warm water into the dispenser, which only forced more soapy water (albeit diluted) to overflow back into the appliance. This was going to take some time.

I headed for my computer. Thank goodness for Google search; it turns up answers for any—and every—conceivable dilemma.

Getting down on my knees beside the open dishwasher door, I used my largest ladel to scoop clouds of frothy bubbles out of the appliance into the kitchen sink. Then, with my needle-nosed, metal turkey baster in hand, I painstakingly suctioned the blue liquid out from the tiny hole at the base of the rinse aid dispenser, ejecting a soapy stream into the sink with a shplatt sound in what seemed to be a millilitre-by-millilitre process.

Progress was slow, but I felt pleased that the strategy was obviously working. And as I suctioned, it suddenly occurred to me that I was feeling rather delighted with my solo problem-solving ability.

I know; it was such a small thing. But still. It was exactly the sort of thing I would have once called on Doug to take care of because he would have happily taken care of it. And in the next moment, I realized that I was also proud of myself because I felt delighted; a situation that once would have led to frustration, tears, or even kicked off another bout of grieving at the obvious evidence of Doug’s continuing cognitive decline, had me smiling instead.

Proof of progress? Perhaps. Determination? Definitely. Resilience? I think so.

Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash

I know I am in good company. Part of partnering in life often means each partner takes on different responsibilities, whether by default or deliberation. And when one partner is suddenly removed—in reality or in effect—from the life they shared, the remaining partner must fill the responsibility vacuum.

But we are created stronger than we know, more resilient than we imagine. Every person who has ever lost a spouse—to illness, death, desertion, divorce, or something else—knows what it is to have to learn new skills, to cope with issues you never imagined you would have to cope with, or to do things you never wanted to have to do.

I watched my mom learn to write a cheque for the first time in her life after my dad died. I remember a friend—shortly after being widowed—with hammer in hand, trying to take apart a piece of furniture and erupting into tears, “He should be here, doing this.”

I think of a 91-year-old man whose wife lives with Alzheimer’s, who told me of learning to prepare meals after a lifetime of his wife doing the cooking. Another friend, whose husband left their marriage, told me of the pride she felt at learning to use the barbecue and the lawn mower.

For those of us who have become full-time caregivers for our partners, there are so many occasions and opportunities for self-doubt, recrimination, negative self-talk, regret, sorrow, and guilt. Taking a moment to relish the triumphs, to inwardly applaud ourselves, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant the achievement, is the least we ought to do.

“I take great pride in being his care partner. To me, this isn’t just about meeting his physical needs. It’s about showing up for him in a way that reflects the love and commitment we’ve built over the years. It’s about honouring the life we’ve shared, the man he’s been and the family we’ve created together. There’s something deeply meaningful about being the person he relies on, even as it challenges me in ways I’d never expected. … Caring for him has taught me patience, resilience, and the true depth of unconditional love … Yet, in all of that, I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t say it’s frightfully difficult, and traumatic, and that I needed help.”

– Emma Heming Willis, The Unexpected Journey.

[Emma is wife and care partner to Bruce Willis, who lives with Primary Progressive Aphasia and Frontotemporal Degeneration - just like my husband does.]