Sundowning: Dusk to Dawn

 

When the sun goes down, one out of five persons with dementia will experience dramatic changes in behavior. Agitation increases, and they become irritable and anxious. This change can last for a short time or it may continue from dusk to dawn. As the caregiver’s energy wanes, the person with dementia has an energy surge that can last all night long.

I noticed a change in Jim’s nighttime behavior about four years into dementia. He had become restless and wandered during the day. We all became vigilant—even the neighbors—and worked toward keeping him safe.

If Jim wandered off when his mom was watching him, she would follow him with her car. For some reason, he would not get in the car with her, so she would call me on her car phone to tell me where he was walking. I’d leave work and pick him up. After he was safely at home, I would go back to work and hope that once was enough for that day.

It was also about that time that Jim began to roam at night. I would wake up and find him roaming around the house and cajole him into coming back to bed for a few more hours. Then, he would sleep during the day, and be wide awake when I wanted to go to bed.

Our family physician prescribed a sleep aid to help Jim rest more at night. After a short time, I realized he slept peacefully for four hours. Then, he was up and roaming. One night, I realized he wasn’t in the house so I jumped into my car and found him a few miles down the road. Jim was fully dressed, wearing sunglasses, and walking slowly with a cane.

I stopped the car and walked until I caught up with him. I latched onto the crook of his arm and  steered him to the car, turned around, and took him home. After that, I found an alarm for the door so that he couldn’t leave without me knowing.

Recently, I was reading an interesting article about the Hebrew Home of Riverdale, NY, that saw a need for night-care as well as daycare for persons with dementia. The official name of the  “Dusk to Dawn” program is ElderServe at Night.

The long-term care community provides transportation to and from the facility so that participants might channel their energy surge to a night of activities. The program caters to individual interests with everything from dancing to massage and relaxing music.

I had never heard of a nighttime program, but I finally found one facility locally that offered adult daycare. After about a week, Jim wandered away from the facility and they would not let him return. I can’t blame them for not wanting to be responsible for a man who headed out onto the highway carrying his guitar. At least, he was going in the direction of home.

Later when Jim went into long-term care, he wandered the halls at night with only fitful sleep. At first, he never slept in his bed but in the middle of the night, he would take short naps on the couch by the nurse’s station. Jim’s norm was to pace almost non-stop. He would take short breaks to eat, shower, and occasionally nap in his recliner during the day.

Later in the disease, Jim’s problems with balance caused him to fall often. With medication, he slept more at night and body alarms helped staff know when he was trying to get out of bed or out of his chair.

The one thing that bothered me most about the special care unit was how Jim lost his freedom. There’s a sense of injustice when someone who risked his life to defend his country’s freedom  lost his personal independence.

I often broke him out of the facility to take him on drives, walks in the park, and to drop by Dairy Queen for a milkshake. In the last months of his life, it became too difficult to load him in the van, so I brought him his favorite foods and wheeled him around the parking lot.

After Jim passed away, one evening I drove through Dairy Queen and ordered a milkshake. The kid at the window said, “Didn’t you used to bring your husband by for a milkshake?”

  “Yes, I did,” I said. I drove to the park, sat on a bench until dusk. My milkshake was long gone, along with the illusion that Jim was beside me. When I headed home, I knew dawn was a full night’s sleep away. The only thing to disturb my sleep would be broken dreams and sweet memories.

 

alz.org/sedaliawalk

Copyright © August 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Helping Others Helps Yourself

 

My dad used to say that when you were in the army, you should never volunteer for anything. I believe that makes a lot of sense when you are in a warzone. I remember Jim sending letters home from Vietnam and telling me that his buddy, Webb, volunteered them to make trips to a place he called “Duc Duc.” I got the distinct impression that traveling to this place was more dangerous than staying in Long Bihn.

Although volunteering for a dangerous mission might not be good for your health, volunteering for a charitable organization has several health benefits. Helping others helps both mental and physical health.

I’ve been a volunteer for the Alzheimer’s Association since 1998. As with most volunteers, I pitched in to help an organization that helped me. I was in contact with my local chapter from the time that Jim first developed symptoms. Over the years, I served on the Board of Directors, as a state and national advocate, support group facilitator, speaker, and chaired the local Walk.

When I read about the proven benefits of being a volunteer, I agree wholeheartedly. I often felt like I benefited more from being a volunteer than the Alzheimer’s Association benefited from me being a volunteer. 

Mental Benefits:

·       Reduces Stress, Anxiety, and Depression

·       Gives a Sense of Purpose

·       Increases Happiness

·       Encourages Social Interaction and Forges New Friendships

·       Promotes Emotional Healing

Mentally, volunteering became my lifeline in a sea of uncertainty. As I threw myself into the varied activities, I met other people who understood the life-shattering differences perpetrated by dementia. I connected with sisters of the heart who became life-long friends.

One time someone suggested that I give up volunteering for the Alzheimer’s Association, but I told them that although I couldn’t stop the progression of the disease, I had found a way to make a difference. I became a better caregiver when I focused on promoting awareness, seeking knowledge about dementia, and advocating for effective treatments.

Every person does not have to start at the beginning of the learning curve. Through support group, and from the professionals who worked at the Alzheimer’s Association, I learned about everything from how to avoid financial pitfalls to caregiving tips. 

Physical Benefits:

·       Increases Physical Activity

·       Lowers Blood Pressure

·       Improves Heart Health

·       Decreases Pain Level

Studies show that people who stay actively engaged in life have better physical health. I really think part of it might be that you simply have less time to feel sorry for yourself.

I attended a seminar once where the speaker talked about focus. “If you focus on red cars, you will be surprised at how many red cars you will see.” Focusing on your health means you are more cognizant of your choices.

Have you ever noticed that people who actively volunteer, usually volunteer for more than one organization? It’s because once your focus is on how to make a positive impact, you can plainly see the need.

Often the most traumatic events in our lives motivate us into action. Whether that action is participating in an event, providing financial support, or offering a helping hand—each of us can make a positive impact on our community.

 

alz.org/sedaliawalk

Copyright ©July 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Liquid Love

I made it all the way through my brother’s celebration of life without crying. Sure, my eyes were a little blurry at times, but I held it together in that moment. I read two of his stories and a short piece I had written about him.

The next evening at church services, when Pastor Christopher spoke to me, the tears I’d held back the previous day fell as I told him I’d lost my brother. He said my tears were “liquid love.” Through the years of my life, I’ve shed buckets of liquid love for family members, friends, and beloved pets.

Life, for most of us, is full of gladness and sadness. Those who say they are blessed are the ones who have the most love to give and the heartache that walks hand in hand with love lost. Each of us has to balance the gain against the pain.

Once I said that my two husbands, Jim and Harold, had nothing in common. They were about as unalike as two people can be. Then, a friend pointed out to me that they both loved me so they did have something in common.

I shed liquid love over Jim’s diagnosis and his failing health. Throughout the years of his dementia, I learned that love comes in many shapes and sizes. The people who cared enough to provide support and acts of kindness showed their love in tangible ways. My family and Jim’s family were the wind beneath my wings that kept me from crashing and burning.

As all who have lost a love one knows, the quiet moments are the most unbearable. They are the times of regret and unbridled sorrow. When you don’t have to be strong for anyone else, it is easy to dwell on the future that could have been and compare it to the one that never will be. The wounds are broken open and healing is delayed.

Grief has no timeline. Although twenty years may pass, and other loves come and go, a song, a random memory, or a photo can make a person time travel through the years and a fresh round of grief.

As I’ve grown older, the scars on my heart have accumulated. I’ve been widowed twice, but I refuse to measure life with sorrow. Instead, I will measure my life with blessings. I am blessed to have my family, two extended families, a multitude of friends, and a lovable dog.

My arthritic body makes me appreciate any pain-free days. When I feel like I’ve walked through fire, I gratefully accept the offer of a pool of cold water to soothe the burn.

Liquid love doesn’t have to be tears of sorrow—it can be tears of joy. Each sunrise brings the promise of hope and a dawning of possibilities. When a day has been well spent, sunset will bring a hush of peace and calm.    

 

Copyright ©July 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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The Gift of Music

 Life can be overwhelming and grief can become all consuming. Over the past six months, I felt on the cusp of coming to grips with Harold’s death. Joy had returned to my life as the Capps Family Band had returned after our long hiatus following Jimmy’s hospitalization. We played at two nursing homes in May and three in June.

The last place we played in June was Cole Camp. As we packed up our instruments, Jimmy said he felt better that day because the room was cool. I suggested that he sing “Independence Day” in July. As we exited the building, I said I would see him at practice.

Sometimes life plays tricks on us. I never knew that my casual goodbye would be the last time I would see my brother. A week from the day the Capps Family Band played at Cole Camp, Kathy, their grandson Connor, my sister Roberta, and I were planning his funeral.

Last night, I was watching the Daniel O’Donnell show and he began to sing “You Were Always on My Mind.” I turned it off and went into a complete meltdown. A few months ago, Jimmy was in the hospital in Columbia. We were talking on the phone, and he wanted to know if I’d been working on any new songs. I named off a few of them, and he wanted me to pick up my ukulele and try that one. I started playing it and he stopped me. He suggested I try a different key. I started again and when I got to the bridge, he told me my timing was off. So he had me start over, and finally, about the fifth time through he let me finish. “You have that one,” he said.

During, our normal practice sessions Jimmy would concentrate on one song at a time. One time, he told me the song I was singing needed to be sung as if I was singing to a child. Another time, he told me I needed to put some sass into a song I was learning. Both times, he gave advice that improved the performance.

He encouraged everyone in the family band to sing. He had full confidence that with practice and the right key, anyone could sing. He was always satisfied when we did our best, even when it wasn’t perfect. The rule was that you kept on singing even when you made a mistake because often the audience wouldn’t even know you had made it.

The best part of our practice sessions was spending time with family. When I first started with the band, we were a large group. Due to health reasons and other life circumstances, most of the time the band was Jimmy, Kathy, and me. The three of us each played an instrument and took turns singing. Music was so important to Jimmy that he powered through health problems that would have had most people housebound.

Today, I ignored everything on my to-do list to practice the guitar until my fingers were sore. My fingers felt clumsy as they reached for the basic chords, and I struggled to change chords smoothly. When I started to feel discouraged, I remembered that I had the same problems when I first started playing the ukulele.

After I finished with the guitar, I picked up my ukulele. I played some of the new songs I’ve been working on, and started through the songs on my list in our family band songbook.

Several people have asked if the Capps Family Band would continue. Jimmy was our fearless leader and the heart and soul of the band. It’s hard to imagine the band without him, but if our family can eventually get it together, it would be his legacy.

I love to play music and sing and that is totally Jimmy’s fault. I will miss him as a brother, mentor, fellow writer, and as a friend. I will miss his mischievous sense of humor. I will cherish the good times, the fun times, and the love he had for his family.

My heart aches for my mom, Kathy, his grandkids, my brothers and sisters, and his friends. My heart hurts for the people in the nursing/retirement facilities that were so happy to see Jimmy after his long hospitalization.

 Today, I pulled up some of Jimmy’s stories that I saved on my PC. It felt good to laugh at his words. I always laugh at the “Donnie and Me” video. I am thankful for the videos Jimmy made and the gift of music he left us.

Copyright ©June 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Sandwich Board Sign

 

On my birthday, I spent the day with my mom, sisters, and one of my brothers. Later in the evening, I had dinner with my son and daughter-in-law.

The waitress mentioned a missing girl in the area where Eric and his family will be vacationing. “A lot of people go missing and sometimes they are never found,” I said.

Our conversation turned to some family members who had tragic events that caused turmoil and heartbreak. We talked about good people who grew up with horrible abuse.

Sometimes we have an inkling of the demons that plague people we know, but we only see what they allow us to see. Most people hide their sorrow behind a polite smile and a “Fine” in response to a generic, “How are you?”

Some people have no empathy and think their problems are the biggest problems anyone can face. I’ve always had the assurance that no matter how bad things were in my life, someone else had bigger problems. I have complete confidence that no matter how hopeless a situation was that eventually life would be better.

At certain times in my life, I’ve felt as if I were walking through a dark tunnel that was on the verge of collapse. Then, I would hit a place where the light shone through for a short time before I was plunged back into darkness. Even during the darkest times, I had no doubt that if I knew what other people were dealing with; my problems would seem miniscule in comparison.

I heard a man say that if people walked around wearing a sandwich board that listed their problems as bullet points, we would treat others with more kindness. The pain that lies in a person’s heart and the hurt of a tormented soul are not visible to his closest friends much less strangers he passes on the streets.

No one cares to spend time with a chronic complainer, but the person who is constantly cracking jokes may be the saddest person you know. Being the life of the party is sometimes the only way he or she can feel alive.

We may know the bullet points of another’s life. We may understand that a caregiver is cranky because she hasn’t had any sleep. The man who lashes out in uncharacteristic anger is frustrated by a brain riddled with dementia. A person who suffers from depression may have lost a loved one. Our co-worker hasn’t performed to her usual standards because she is dealing with terminal cancer.

No one wears a sandwich board and only those who know a person’s situation can begin to comprehend why a person’s behavior is outside of the norm. That is, if there is a norm.

Not every problem has a solution and not every person has the capability to keep on moving through the dark times of life. Stress can light the fuse to a powder keg of self-destruction.

If I were to write a sandwich board, I really believe it would be more helpful to my state of mind to list the things that are right in my world. I have a large family that I love, I have a good dog, I have a nice home, food to eat, fresh air to breathe, and a community of friends. I have enough work to do that I don’t have time to be bored.

I have some health problems, but hey, who doesn’t? I have music, laughter, and love in my life. Who could ask for anything more?

 

Copyright ©June 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

#ENDALZ

Sing for Your Best Life

The best way to keep your mind active is to learn a new skill. When your mind is actively acquiring information, your brain builds new connections between neurons. The synapses become stronger as you practice a new activity.

Several years ago, I bought a ukulele and looked up some chords on YouTube. It wasn’t long before I could strum a few tunes. I started practicing with our family band and eventually played music with them at nursing homes.

I often had to consult my chord chart when we played new songs with chords I hadn’t yet learned. Later I began to sing with the group and, at that time, our band was large enough that I only sang one or two songs a month. Now that our band is smaller, we sing five or six songs each time.

Singing is good for body and soul alike. Singing releases endorphins, which lifts your spirits, but when you have lung problems as my brother and I both do, it increases lung capacity and vocal cord health.

Learning melodies and lyrics are, you guessed it, good for your brain. When you sing, you use multiple areas of your brain and improve your memory. The expression “Sleep on it” is actually good advice. During sleep, your new skills move from your short-term memory to long-term memory. In between your snores, your brain is busy downloading data to your brain’s more durable storage.

Singing in a group increases connection with family or friends. Group activities also increase levels of a hormone, oxytocin, associated with bonding. Being socially active is a recommended way to improve cognitive health.  

When you watch shows like American Idol or the Voice the judges often mention that a contestant sings “from the heart.” Well, singing from the heart is a good description because studies show that singing has the same effect on your heart as light physical activity. The researcher thinks that singing might eventually be incorporated into cardiac rehab.

Music has brought joy into my life. I try to squeeze out time several days a week to play my ukulele. When I listen to the radio or scroll on my phone watching music videos, I often hear a song I hadn’t thought of in years. Sometimes, I download the lyrics and chords only to realize I either can’t play the tune or sing the song. I’m not discouraged because sometimes I come back to it months later and it clicks. Or, I might be able to sing it, but not play it. When that happens, I might try karaoke. Sometimes, I might be able to play it but not be able to sing it. During our practice sessions, my brother can often find the correct key for my voice.

Due to health issues, we hadn’t played music at the retirement homes since November of last year. When we played this month, we heard, “We missed you,” and we missed them too. The reward for our family band was the joy on the residents’ faces.

How great is it to do something I enjoy while I exercise my heart and brain? Playing the ukulele and singing lifts my spirits and chases away the blues. Some of my efforts are an epic fail, but it certainly feels good when I learn to play or sing a song well. Either way, my dog always listens attentively and never rolls her eyes when I make a mistake. 

 Copyright ©May 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

#ENDALZ 

Chapters of Life

 When I think back on the different roles I’ve played throughout my lifetime, I realize that I’ve evolved and changed throughout the years. My life has as many chapters as a James Patterson novel. Some chapters were short and forgotten long ago, while others have woven a theme throughout my book of life.

Jim and I were so young when we married. I was 18 and he was 24. Times were different then than now. We grew up faster than the following generations. Vietnam took many who had just graduated high school, and some of my classmates were already slogging through the jungle getting shot at and becoming old before their time.

As my life evolved into being a wife and a mother-to-be, Jim went back to being a soldier. We had been married on Jim’s R&R, and his role changed to husband and father-to-be. He still had a year to serve when he returned to the world, and he went through another transition, but brought his demons with him.

Throughout the years of our married life, Jim suffered from PTSD, depression, occasional paranoia, and complete mental breakdowns. Alternately, he could be loving, creative, sensitive, and generous to a fault. The one trait that never changed was his love of, and loyalty to, family.

I became a caregiver during the final chapter of Jim’s life. Nothing is sadder or more heartbreaking than watching someone you love disappear into the clutches of dementia. We faced a new battle together as Jim’s personality, ability to communicate, and his sense of self diminished into a shadow of the person he once was. Yet, sometimes, he surprised those around him with a look in his eyes, or a slight smile as he held a secret he couldn’t share verbally, and returning a hug or a kiss.

We lost the battle to dementia twenty-five years ago, but Jim’s memory still lives, and the next chapter was learning to live alone. I had already lived five years alone while Jim was in the nursing home, but that was followed with another nine years living in the house Jim and I built.

I remarried in 2014 and Harold and I celebrated our 10^th wedding anniversary in August. As we aged, we both had our share of health issues. Harold’s health was worse than mine, and I found myself in a caregiving role without the benefit of being young. When Harold passed away, I found myself a widow for the second time.

The truth I discovered was that losing my spouse was harder this time. I suppose there is a complicated psychological reason, or reasons, for this difference in my ability to bounce back from the grief. The only thing I am sure of is that I don’t want to go through this again. I don’t think I can go through it again.

I’m adjusting to the new normal. I have begun to participate in activities I enjoy. I want to spend more time with family and friends.

I embrace my responsibilities to the land and home that are in my care. It’s true that you never know how strong you are until you have to be.

I’m working on resolving some of my own health issues, and want to make the most of the next chapter of my life. Some days everything goes smoothly, and other days, I have to place a bookmark and start fresh the next day.

 Copyright ©May 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Homecoming – April 5

 

Some days stick in our memories and when the date rolls around, we either celebrate or somberly remember the anniversary. The days are always poignant if you shared the memory with someone who is no longer with you.

Jim and I were married while he was on R&R in Hawaii where we had only a few short days together. We said our vows in the Ft. DeRussy Chapel on December 20^th and in the predawn hours of Christmas Day, Jim walked me to the gate to board a plane to take me home. After our goodbyes, he headed to his flight to return to the uncertainty of war.

  The days dragged by, and I worried that something would go wrong. Finally, April rolled around, and I breathed a little easier knowing that he would be coming home within the week.

 

From Indelible, unfinished memoir:

Jim’s parents and I arrived at the Kansas City airport hours ahead of time. It was April 5, 1970, and Jim was on his way home from Vietnam. He was supposed to come home on the fourth, but after an anxious day waiting for a call that didn’t come, his parents and I had spent a restless night worried that something had happened to him on his last day in Nam.

The next morning he called from Seattle. He explained that the airport was under attack the day before and they wouldn’t let the planes leave. “We kept saying, just go!” After eleven months of expecting to be blown to bits at any moment, he thought the odds were better to just get the hell out of there.

We stood outside waiting for the passengers to disembark. I was wearing a long psychedelic patterned polyester blouse over a short royal blue pleated skirt. The blouse covered the baby bump.

A crowd of people awaited the plane and the arrival of loved ones. From our excitement, they knew we were there to meet a returning soldier. Airport personnel let me go out in front of everyone and across the do-not-cross line. Jim stepped off the plane and pushed his way past the other passengers to grab me up in his arms. He was home at last!

He kissed me and I tasted the bitter tang of alcohol. Unlike most women who have morning sickness, I had afternoon sickness and it was about time for it to hit me. “What on earth have you been drinking?”

“Vodka,” he said sheepishly. “I thought vodka wasn’t supposed to smell.”

“Well, I can taste it,” I said. Then I kissed him again, vodka taste or not.

 

Each year as April 5 rolls around, I always think of Jim’s homecoming. This year, we celebrated a homecoming of a different kind. Our family gathered at my Mom’s house so that she could meet all three of her great-great grandchildren. We were able to get a five-generation photo.

Jim loved family get-togethers, and I know in my heart that he was there celebrating with us.  

 

Copyright ©April 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Is Gray a Color?

 On a windy day, I posted a picture of the wind blowing my hair around and labeled it “A Bad Hair Day.” It wasn’t long before a comment popped up that said, “Is gray a color?”

After thinking about that comment, I came to the conclusion that gray is much more than a color. Gray is a badge of courage that honors life’s worries, sorrows, disappointments, and heartaches. Gray hair and wrinkles represent the trauma of death, loss of love, and a big loss of self. After being widowed twice, I’ve earned my gray.

When a woman wears her hair its natural color and doesn’t spend hours of her life arranging every hair in place, she is saying she is comfortable with who she is. She isn’t trying to impress anyone.

If a woman wants to dye her hair, Botox her face, have a pedi mani, or anything else to make herself more beautiful, I say, “Good for her.” Her goals and mine are not the same. She can be a sister of my heart, and I’m proud of her for taking pride in her appearance.

I can clean up once in awhile, but I’m realistic. After living seven decades, what you see is what you get. Through years of marriage, or togetherness, couples see each other at their worst and at their best.

I spent fifteen years of my life as a caregiver, and I’ll admit that I’m worn to the nubbins. Lately, I’ve been treading water, and I’m a long way from the shore. Sometimes, I think I’m going to drown, but I put on my big girl panties and keep on moving forward.

Another thing I’ve noticed about reaching a certain age is it is practically impossible to hurt my feelings. I may care about your opinion, but most likely, I don’t.

I look for moments of joy: playing my ukulele, spending time with my family who loves me warts and all. Sometimes, serendipity leads me to explore something new.

After a dental appointment, I needed to go by the bank, but traffic kept me from turning left. I decided to go with the flow and made a right hand turn so that I could turn around in the mall parking lot. Considering my attention span, I thought while I was at the mall…

Thirty minutes later, I walked out of Gene’s Boots and Hats with both items mentioned in the store’s name. A new Stetson and a pair of Ariat boots stowed in my truck, I completed the trip to the bank.

The boot purchase showcases my optimistic side. I am confident that the arthritis infusions will clear up the pain in my Achilles heels. The hat, well, I just wanted one since I’m not sure where my original Resistol hat is.

I’m also optimistic that our family band will be able to play music again. We are on a break due to health problems. With age comes wisdom, gray hair, wrinkles, and a team of specialists to keep us in pretty good shape for the shape we’re in.

Music and singing are magical when it comes to traversing the winding road of life. Whenever I pick up my ukulele, I find peace and happiness whether I’m playing for an audience or for my dog.

Life is too short and too uncertain to worry more about outward appearance than spiritual serenity. Gray is the color that provides a backdrop for the colorful rainbow of promise.

 

Copyright ©April 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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A Pot of Gold

 

My sister and I took a trip to Ireland in 2005. Going to Ireland had been on my bucket list for years, so when we saw the trip advertised, we signed up for it and put down our deposits. We bought the trip insurance because Jim was in the nursing home, and his health and wellbeing would take priority over a vacation. Our trip was scheduled for September, and sadly, Jim passed away in April.

On St. Patrick’s Day in 2014, I posted some of our photos to Facebook, and when they came up in my “memories,” I reposted them. I think the one that got the most attention was the one of me kissing the Blarney Stone.

Of course, kissing the Blarney Stone was part of my bucket list too. To be perfectly honest, I had no idea how scary that entire experience would be. After we walked along the top edge of Blarney Castle, we stood in line to kiss the stone. A man held onto each person as he dipped him or her backwards over a sheer drop to the ground. My sister, grossed out at the thought of all the other lips on the stone, “air kissed” it. Not me, if I was going to put my life in the hands of an old man that dipped people backwards all day long, I wasn’t about to miss the opportunity of a lifetime, and I kissed the stone.

 Ireland, and St. Patrick’s Day, are blessed with a lot of symbolism: Ireland’s patron saint—St. Patrick, shamrocks, mischievous leprechauns, corned beef and cabbage, Irish music, the color green, and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. We speak of the luck of the Irish as if it is a magical beacon, although Ireland and the Irish have suffered greatly throughout the centuries.

How many of us chase rainbows (dreams) believing that if our dreams come true, we’ll find that pot of gold (wealth or happiness) at the end. What many don’t realize is that the chase is often the best part and the pot of gold can be disappointing.

Jim searched for that pot of gold by buying lottery tickets. He always wanted to win the jackpot. After he became more forgetful, I’d find tickets lying around that he’d bought, but never checked. Occasionally, we would take a stack in to have them run through a machine. Jim never got that pot of gold, but the tickets were a small price to chase his dream of instant wealth.

I never had any desire to win the lottery because I figured it would just mess up my life. I was more than satisfied as long as I had enough money to pay the bills, buy groceries, and have some spending money left.

Jim and I never found gold, but our life had its share of rain and rainbows. We had hard times and good times. Although we never had monetary wealth, we were abundantly blessed with love and family. 

On St. Patrick’s Day, my hope is that you enjoy chasing your dreams, and that you find a pot of “gold” filled with health, wealth, and happiness.

Originally published 2023

Copyright © March 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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