Finding where I lost myself...
Clue: go back to the source
It’s bittersweet so I ordered an old-fashioned.
My server, who is also one of the owners of this hotel, told me he had to look in his phone for the recipe and was apologetic that he used whiskey instead of bourbon. It’s actually pretty damn good.
Anyway, this is my last afternoon/evening on my solo holiday. As you will have read in my previous entry, Saint Martin was the last place my husband and I holidayed together because of his out of control drinking. Why did I come back you might ask? I’m asking myself that right about now.
Coming here I had zero expectations other than lying in the sun, going in the pool, eating and drinking. I’m taking anti-inflammatories and pain meds for my arthritic hip so drinking is not advised but I’m doing it anyway. Carpe diem.
I didn’t rent a car as we would have done if it were still the two of us and I have only left the small hotel grounds once in the week I’ve been here. This is highly unusual for me as I was always the one who said we had to investigate our surroundings. But this holiday has been a way for me to decompress after months of watching my husband give up on life until finally his dementia (which appeared to come out of the blue) made him say things like, “Is this your house?” and “Are we staying here again tonight?” Finally in the middle of January, he was offered a bed at the long-term care facility near us and moved in. Why is it called a “facility”? It makes it sound like a meat packing plant, but there is nothing “facile” about it.
I am struggling to comprehend what we are now. Is it still the two of us? Here, at this beautiful hotel, it is only ‘one’. But I continue to see things as if I am still part of ‘two’. I look at the menu and wonder what he might have ordered, I wonder how many drinks he would end up having in one day and how we’d likely have to make numerous visits to the local liquor store to buy large bottles of vodka. I imagine he would spend much of his time next to an ashtray, smoking, with the smoke wafting directly into my face, as it always seemed to do no matter which direction he faced in an effort to spare me.
I knew his dementia was beginning to consume him when he suddenly forgot that he smoked. After nearly a lifetime of doing so, suddenly it was if it never had been. How can that be? The doctor at the “facility” told me that one resident had quit smoking at mid-life but his dementia had him not remembering that and he took it up again thinking he had never stopped.
But my husband also was disappearing in other ways. Our conversations had begun to shrink and his face began to show no expression. He started to forget how to swallow his pills and would spend an interminable amount of time chewing one bite of his sandwich, even though it had been made with that soft white bread that squishes into a ball of tasteless dough when you press it in your fingers. Ultimately, I started feeding him soups and nutritional supplement drinks, the former out of a mug because the use of a spoon was almost impossible because of his tremors.
I made this reservation after he was admitted as I was finally sure he would be safe without me. Funny how one still thinks that we are the only one who can do that job.
Again, why am I here? More specifically, why did I choose this place, this island that has so many memories.
I remember the first time we came to this island and our bags went somewhere else. I was much younger then and the first thing we did after checking into our beach front hotel was buy some clothes (me, a sundress, he, a pair of shorts) so we had something to wear.
We walked down the road to the lolos, which are casual outdoor eateries that sit between the road and the ocean, run by locals who use half oil barrels for barbeque – fish, chicken, corn on the cob, re-fried beans and anything else. The meals are cheap and cheerful and the atmosphere is friendly but still very efficient. After all, everyone is trying to make a living. That was before Hurricane Irma when beach restaurants all over the island were decimated, not to mention the hotels as well as peoples’ homes. It hit the island in 2017, the winter after we visited for the last time. It took six years for my favourite beachside restaurant to re-open and it was my first stop on the way to the hotel from the airport on this trip.
I’ve been lucky on this holiday so far; perhaps it’s a combination of my being an “older” woman travelling alone but also using “merci beaucoup” profusely in every request I make. Can you take me to the little hotel up the hill from the restaurant? “Mais oui but I have to hurry back to be here for my clients”. Can you take me to the beach? Although the reply was “it’s only a three minute walk but mais oui, I can take you there and pick you up as well – just call me”. Ask and you shall receive.
I note that I haven’t met any other Canadians here, only French tourists (called “fucking French tourists” by my first taxi driver) and those from the United States (I don’t call them Americans on principle). I find that odd. This is the French, more ‘European’ side of the island, north of the busier, more touristy Dutch side that is essentially “American” in flavour.
Thankfully the USA tourists that I’ve met so far have been progressive and are sickened by the state of affairs in their country. I’m heartened by that but still a little surprised that they would wind up here in this low-key Caribbean destination rather than a glitzier one elsewhere. Maybe that’s just the stereotype I have rearing its head.
Anyway, where was I?
I’ve struggled to write this blog entry, as I always seem to descend into a sadness and loneliness that I can’t shake. I had chosen this destination because I felt I knew it well after having come here at least three or four times in the past. Despite the trauma that our last visit produced, I believed that I could shift the narrative if I came alone, unburdened by someone who never felt altogether comfortable or safe away from home. That I could simply just “be” without needing to do anything other than take in the beauty and ease of island life and recover from months (years) of trauma.
I’ve always been able to make the best of being alone, if not physically then emotionally. After our last disaster, I tentatively made other (much shorter and closer to home) arrangements for holidays that I thought would be successful. I rented a small RV and made a reservation at a picturesque trailer park less than two hours away. We all left but again, it turned into another disaster that resulted in me driving it home at 3 a.m. only to leave again the next day, just the dog and I this time. There were always excuses. Another time he bailed at the last minute and again the dog and I went alone. I didn’t fully recognize at the time that his concern was his incontinence, brought on by radiation to treat his prostate cancer. My response to this was to minimize it, saying we could still make it work. Clearly it was deeper than that; a man in his 70s who still considered himself a version of Indiana Jones could not in any shape or form accept his own aging or vulnerabilities. And of course, this feeling of not being in control was what always led him to drink.
Maybe I’m searching for myself in the last place I was lost.
On the drive to the airport (that used to be old and small, like a Caribbean airport should be), I saw familiar storefronts in the capital city of Marigot, a boulangerie here, a MaxMara there, little street-side cafes where we had stopped to get out of the sun and have a refreshment. Was the perfumerie still there I wondered? Or the shop where my husband bought me a fancy sundress with shirring across the top (that looked better on the hanger than on me and consequently I can’t remember ever wearing it outside of the changing room), or the bikini shop where I was convinced to buy one!
I noted the turnoff to Friar’s Bay beach that you could easily miss as you turned the bend. Years ago it was a secluded spot with tables under tropical grassy umbrellas and a server who said, “Non,” when my husband asked for a Coke and brought him a “Ting” instead, saying “You must have our local soda!” . Memories all that I am able to summon clearly. And many of them are good ones.
All of this brings that familiar heaviness in my throat, the choking you feel when grief rears its head. The catching of your breath that seems to cut off all air to your lungs until you inhale deeply, pulling it in as if your life depends upon it. As if you have forgotten how to breathe at all.
The owner of the hotel says, “Please come back” and I nod, saying it has been a perfect stay and promise to give it a glowing review, but I know it is unlikely I’ll return. I hope their little hotel is a success, as they’ve put so much effort into it.
As I sit in the airport on my way home, I ask the young man sitting two seats away if he can please open my bottle of water. The kind that crackles when you try to turn the cap, but it doesn’t want to budge for me. He does so effortlessly, but not before he says, “Sure,” not once making eye contact with this silver haired lady. It feels to me that although he does so courteously, it has embarrassed him to be singled out to do such a task. Is that just me?
I sit with my memories, not knowing how much time I have left to make new ones that will soften the traumatic ones. I remember when I adopted my dog Scout, who was estimated at two years when we brought her home. I have always believed that when a dogs’ good years outnumber their bad, they will finally be able to overcome and forget their past. Is it the same with us?
Home now and as I visit with my husband, he in his wheelchair, me lying on his bed, with our hands holding, I realize he is not aware that I’ve been away for the week. I believe he is living in something like a cloud, a cloud that is fuzzy and incomprehensible. His reality has been profoundly altered by this dementia. Perhaps I can compare it to when I lived for three months on my bed after back surgery as a 13 year old, being cared for by my mother, unable to do anything for myself. So many visitors felt sorry for me. Will it shock you if I say that I recall feeling content?
I hope he does too.
I will continue to look for myself on this new road where I must find my own way. And I know I will be content again, even as the man I’ve loved drifts further away.
