Back in December while on route in our mountain village to the grocery store for Alfred's' weekly stock run a car honked just as we drove by one of the lighted-up christmas sculptures, and Alfred called me an angel and I thought as caregiver it's nice to be appreciated.
The third person at our table, Alfred's bridge to recovery, is not however an angel. Furthermore, the bridge that will take him there and the look of recovery itself, and his actual recovery may not be anything like what is thought when we think of the word, "recovery." Recovery for Alfred I can most certainly say will not be about him going back to work, owning his own home, having his own family, nor driving a car. He is now 65, and so admittedly has refused services and contact with the bureaucracy that his driver's identification I believe is still from the 60's, he had not had his eyes checked in over twenty years, nor seen a doctor probably since he was a teen, and recently when I asked if he wanted to update his voter registration he refused.
So when spring rolled around this year, after returning from church one Sunday, I went right over to his cabin, scooped up five pair of jeans, and nine tea shirts, brought them to the big house and dumped them in a hot washer with laundry detergent and borax to get rid of the mold. And when I returned his clothing cleaned and dried, I also gave him clean towels and washcloths with a bar of soap and told him to use it.
He seemed to accept my edict. I am after all his change agent and changes are afoot. We met with a few folks from Daymark over breakfast last week. They treaded very lightly on his psyche. He seemed to enjoy the company, and they will be breakfasting with us some more, helping him inch along, helping him take baby steps, helping him know that he is not alone.
The third person at our table, Alfred's bridge to recovery, is not however an angel. Furthermore, the bridge that will take him there and the look of recovery itself, and his actual recovery may not be anything like what is thought when we think of the word, "recovery." Recovery for Alfred I can most certainly say will not be about him going back to work, owning his own home, having his own family, nor driving a car. He is now 65, and so admittedly has refused services and contact with the bureaucracy that his driver's identification I believe is still from the 60's, he had not had his eyes checked in over twenty years, nor seen a doctor probably since he was a teen, and recently when I asked if he wanted to update his voter registration he refused.
So when spring rolled around this year, after returning from church one Sunday, I went right over to his cabin, scooped up five pair of jeans, and nine tea shirts, brought them to the big house and dumped them in a hot washer with laundry detergent and borax to get rid of the mold. And when I returned his clothing cleaned and dried, I also gave him clean towels and washcloths with a bar of soap and told him to use it.
He seemed to accept my edict. I am after all his change agent and changes are afoot. We met with a few folks from Daymark over breakfast last week. They treaded very lightly on his psyche. He seemed to enjoy the company, and they will be breakfasting with us some more, helping him inch along, helping him take baby steps, helping him know that he is not alone.
