An Ordinary Special Day

A memory recently popped up on my phone. It was a video of our 56th wedding anniversary from a previous month. It showed my return from the floral shop where I went to pick up the flower arrangement I had ordered for us for this occasion.

He always brought me flowers, especially on our anniversary. Often he brought them for no particular reason—except he knew I liked them and so did he. The last several years he’d pick up a small bouquet from the grocery store when he made our grocery run. He liked shopping for groceries, and he liked coming home with “something different,” the surprises that blew the grocery budget right out of the water, and almost always a small bunch of flowers I had to enhance to make an attractive presentation.

This day a small bunch of stems from the grocery store would have meant all the same to him, but I craved something more special, which is why I paid $70 for a beautiful arrangement for our breakfast table. I let him see it, but had to put it out of his sight so he wouldn’t try to eat the flowers.

When I came in the door, he was calling my name and pounding on the table. I tried to explain the significance of the day: we had married 56 years ago that day. He was unimpressed. Our daughter-in-law was watching as all this was going on—presenting the flowers, explaining the significance of the day.

He continued to grumble and be confused…until our DIL hit the recording of Pachelbel’s familiar Canon in D and I waltzed around his chair and gave him a kiss behind the sign our granddaughter made for us. My DIL and I both lost our breath laughing at his quick response (and mood change). ”Give me another one,” he said, “and another…and another!”

Why is this worth writing about? Because, even in his confused state of mind, our connection is strong. I’m still the love of his life. In fact, what I’ve come to realize is that for every time he tells me he loves me (which is multiple times each day), he wants to hear it echoed back. I’ll say it as long as he’s around to hear it.

I’ve also learned he needs spoiling—every day. Our caregivers insisted he should “get up” (which he can’t by himself), wash his face, brush his teeth, get a bath and fresh clothes every morning before coffee. They discovered his mood is soothed when I take him a hot cup of coffee before any of those routine things begin.

They think I spoil him. Maybe they’re right.

This post isn’t very profound, or even very well written; in fact, it’s ordinary from a literary standpoint. It’s a simple account of another day in my life as a caregiver and it’s a reflection of how it feels right now. Things aren’t very exciting. They’re routine, dull, unpredictable, physically tiring and emotionally draining.

There are writers on this platform who inspire, encourage, and motivate me. My relationship with the Lord is enhanced by the numerous faith-building blogs I find here; the physical deterioration I’ve tolerated in myself is being challenged by knowledgeable writers such as Dr, Laurie Marbas (The Habit Healers), and kindred spirits mingle with mine as I read accounts of others just like me: ordinary people who are learning to cope with real life challenges and standing strong.

I meet fairly regularly with other women who are going through a season of life similar to mine. They tell me they’re encouraged by my attitude and sense of humor, but sometimes I feel that I’m wearing a mask. Some days I feel somewhat confident; other times I want to melt into a puddle of helplessness, as when the septic tank backs up, the AC isn’t working, there’s termite damage found in the house, the lawn grass is dying, the beetles are destroying the pine trees, technology baffles me, and my body aches.

People ask how my husband is doing. On one hand, I want to be truthful—to tell them how many times a day he has demonstrated uncharacteristic behavior and acted like a raging monster, but instead I prefer to protect his dignity and tell how he gets so tender and vulnerable at times and says, “I just want to make you the happiest woman in the world. What do you want me to do?”

“You just sit there and do nothing,” I answer.

“That’s what I do all the time,” he says.

My ordinary day has become that of trying to remember what an ordinary day felt like. I remember having morning coffee on the patio; taking late afternoon rides over the farm on the ATV or in his 15-year-old Yukon; filling up fish feeders at our ponds; making spontaneous trips; watching the sunset from the dock at the big lake.

A few short years ago those were ordinary days. They followed the years of ordinary days when we sat through innumerable sport games of all sorts, shared life with our five sons, and enjoyed seeing them become adult men of Christian character and capable leadership.

Now my ordinary days consist of hearing him call my name repeatedly, while I recount the continuous answers to prayer and the small miracles I receive every day. I cope by practicing an attitude of gratitude, reading inspiring posts (like many here on Substack!), being around positive people, associating with younger folks as much as possible, leading Bible study, and encouraging others. My ordinary day now is one of continuous, unexpected challenges and it generally ends with exhaustion by 5:00 p.m.

One of my all-time favorite pieces of literature is Thornton Wilder’s play, Our Town. The main character Emily is allowed to come back from the dead to re-live a day of her life. She wants to choose a special day but she’s told, “Choose an ordinary day. It will be special enough.”

I see what that means

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Help us to remember that our days are numbered, and help us to interpret our lives correctly. Set your wisdom deeply in our hearts so that we may accept your correction. (Psalm 90:12 TPT)