From Moths To Butterflies
In the aftermath of Hubby’s passing, I find myself trying to create order out of the chaos that was our life as his cognitive decline increased over the years. I somehow managed to do what I needed to, but avoided all else. I am trying to reflect on exactly why I went into avoidance mode to simply survive.
Looking around my home, there are constant reminders of that which I could not manage. In all fairness, two years of Covid lock-downs made it very difficult to take care of the most basic necessities, even without a Hubby in one’s life.
Thinking clearly now, I recall that every time I would go to pay a bill or look for an invoice or collect documents for a tax return, Hubby would become concerned. What was I doing? Why was I doing it? Why did I look stressed? Could he help??? Where were his pills? And the list of his inquiries for my every action continued on and on.
I was not actually avoiding taking care of the task at hand. I was avoiding the exhaustive response of a husband who watched my every move. Hence, I tried to handle issues of importance when he was at adult day-care or asleep. For the entire length of the pandemic, there was no day-care, and very little time alone to focus and think clearly enough to take care of so many responsibilities in addition to Hubby’s care.
My heretofore meticulous approach to my responsibilities was shattered. Now I find myself trying to glue all the pieces together.
Having been in the world of fashion for twenty-five of the most productive years of my life, I not only bought clothing of quality, but tried to take very good care of my investments. I actually thought that I would always stay the same size and shape, and that aging would not have any impact on the use of my wardrobe in the decades to come. Who knew that my own wardrobe would become labeled “vintage” and that even I would not wear the items in twenty-years-time?
Thus, surrounded with closets full of clothes made from the most beautiful European fabrics which we sold in our luxury fabric store (The Left Bank Fabric Company in L.A./Beverly Hills) I am looking for new homes for the garments with someone who will appreciate their quality and value. Hubby’s passing has made this an even more complicated project.
Hubby too, had a gorgeous wardrobe, custom made for him by the finest tailors in Beverly Hills, and now I must find his collection a new home, or multiple homes. When my father passed away, I took his wardrobe in its entirety to a charity organization in Virginia where he lived. Hubby’s clothing is of much finer quality, and far more voluminous. I have invited many of our family friends to look through his wardrobe and see what they might enjoy. I have tucked away a few items that I cannot bear to part with, but most I am happy to deliver into appreciative hands.
If you happen to know any male who likes custom made shirts with large collars and French cuffs (requiring cufflinks of course), and who does not mind that the initials “B.D.” are embroidered tastefully on each shirt, this collection awaits a new residence. Being that my own initials are also “B.D.” I did have a moment’s flight of fancy that I might wear his shirts myself. I did neglect to mention that the neck size is quite large from Hubby’s days as a body builder. Fortunately, none of Hubby’s measurements were close to my own, and I must pass on the idea of my dressing as “Annie Hall” in men’s garb.
As I pull out different suits of his which were stored in our downstairs bedroom, I am quite shocked to discover how many of them were veritable feasts for the moths. The holes that I am discovering in so many of the garments which were untouched in recent years make it quite impossible to give the garments to anyone. In all fairness, none of us went anywhere during Covid, so I cannot blame dementia alone for this situation.
Hubby was always passionate about protecting his wardrobe. He would purchase every form of mothballs as summer approached, in order to protect his clothes during the warmer weather. Of course, as his condition became more severe, he forgot to do these small tasks, and I, so overwhelmed by everything I was facing, did not prioritize his wardrobe or my own. Now that life is adjusting to a new normal, I am reorganizing my own wardrobe as well as Hubby’s and am shocked at the lovely items I had forgotten that I had purchased a few years ago.
In the corner of my bedroom is a stack of my own garments which need repair. This would have never happened in years gone by. I would have tackled each item as it presented itself. None of this is shattering information, but it is an indication of how depleted I as Hubby’s caregiver, became in recent years.
In the process of creating order, I invited a good male friend to check out Hubby’s wardrobe yesterday. I had been looking for a loving home for his custom-made black cashmere coat with the mink collar and red silk lining. It looked terrific on our friend, and I am so thrilled that it will have a new life in the years to come. He also selected a pin striped suit, and I found myself waking up this morning concerned as to whether it has the dreaded moth holes lurking somewhere unnoticed. I am quite sure if there are any, that my friend will quietly dispose of the garments and not want to embarrass me.
I was going to title this chapter “The Moth Holes of Life,” but then thought not to do so. Would you even read a chapter with such a sad title? In truth though, moth holes are a vivid image of what happens to a family when caring for a loved one with dementia. There are holes everywhere, in a previously solid marriage, in relationships, in memory, in the life which one had planned to share for eternity.
My dear friend Melanie suggested that the moth holes themselves are symbolic of dementia. Once the moths begin to devour the fabric, it is irreversible, much like dementia creating holes in one’s memory or ability to think clearly. That which is destroyed cannot be retrieved, and the holes continue to get larger with time.
Moth holes in garments are quite permanent. On occasion they can be repaired, but generally one must dispose of the damaged items, and find new ones which will bring joy and pleasure in the years to come. We never want to dispose of those we have loved so well.
Recognizing that a new chapter has begun in my life, in the days and years ahead, I will make every effort to replace the pesky moths with exquisitely colored butterflies!
