sundowning

It’s called sundowning, and if you’re a registered nurse working on the inpatient side, you know the term well. Sundowning is a phenomenon in which elderly patients with a cognitive impairment begin acting out, usually during the evening hours. They become more confused. Agitated. Impulsive. As our day draws to an end, biochemical changes occur. Melatonin production ramps up, and dopamine levels decrease.

Lately, I’ve been experiencing my own sundowning. The past few days have been, dare I say, pleasant. A. routinely passes through my thoughts, but the thoughts rarely become disruptive— until the evening hours. As sunlight fades, the shadows grow long, enveloping my thoughts. And I can’t shake the fear that I’ll never recover from losing her. And I feel delusional for experiencing the relative optimism just hours earlier.

My therapist sends me a message, reminding me we haven’t talked in a while and expressing hope that I’m reaching out to others. She also reminds me of the dangers of being an introvert and self-isolation, especially as an introvert who is grieving.

I have been isolating myself. I chatted and exchanged messages with so many leading up to A.’s service, and then, literally overnight, they’ve all gone away, moving on with their lives while I’m still standing here, looking for direction.

Or maybe just looking for someone.

But who, exactly? How many within my small circle can even pretend to appreciate my loss?

Some people live through an experience (or series of experiences), and it breaks them. Sixty-two days later, I remain broken, unsure if whatever time I have left is worth the investment.

Maybe it’s just the sundowning talking.

Return

When I started this space over two years ago I had no idea what the near future would hold for me and my wife A. Yes none of us truly know what the future holds, but one can never prepare themself for the sudden shock of a cancer diagnosis, especially when it’s a brain malignancy.

On December 10, 2021, my partner for ten years, A., and a day before her 36th birthday, was diagnosed with an extremely rare and aggressive brain cancer. She likely has a year, at most, until it overcomes her. She’s lost vision in her left eye and the right eye is impaired but not, as yet, to a significant degree. She’s currently undergoing proton radiation and chemotherapy. The primary limiting factor for her at this time is fatigue, which is expected given her therapies. She’s relatively pain free and still independent with all activity.

Throughout our many years together A. has rarely allowed herself to express any kind of vulnerability. Lately, however, this curtain has been wearing thin and starting to tear.

Yesterday in the late afternoon and in our living room, we hugged. Standing there, the two of us, she started to cry. “Thank you for the happiest decade of my life... I’m not sure how much time we have left.”

…

A. has been my partner for ten years. She’s my confidante. My wife. The love of my life. And my best friend. She’s practically my everything (given my social circle is nearly nonexistent). And I will be utterly lost without her.

The size of my pain is too immense to calculate. To witness your spouse slowly fade from life… to see joy vanish… it takes your breath away. At the end of day, when I’m wide awake in bed and as she sleeps, my heart aches. Literally. Your brain struggles to understand, which initiates a cardiac response from the dump of stress hormones, and your heart struggles to keep up. The pounding. With arms extended you see your hands bump bump bump bump with each beat. Heart strain, when prolonged, can lead to acute coronary syndrome, atrial fibrillation, and heart failure.

…

I actually started this space over two years ago but didn’t publish it (and didn’t contribute to it for the last year and a half) until yesterday. I feel like publishing it will incentivize me to write, as well as rediscover my camera (my photographic pursuits have decreased significantly since the pandemic began). I’m hopeful these artistic expressions will prove therapeutic once again.

For those who dare, my previous blog is xxxxxxxxxxx. I wrote it from 2005-2011 and, from what I remember of it, was frequently a dark and, at times, disturbing space. I was dealing with some real mental health issues at the time. And at some point over the last year? two years? those issues, or maybe the same forces that drove those earlier issues, resurfaced. For the first time in my life I began seeing a mental health professional in October 2021, and I regret not seeing one sooner.

Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to articulate is that A.’s diagnosis and all its ramifications have tested my mental health like nothing previous. My old blog was an outlet, a creative outlet that allowed me to cope, or at least attempt to cope, with my sister’s addictions, mom’s alcoholism, and my own faulty wiring (and so much more!). Many of those dark urges are back and pose a much greater threat now then they did then. So I’m back on the interwebs with a new blog. We’ll see how it goes.

mc