Yesterday morning I had a royal wedding party here at the house – 20 very excited women having wedding breakfast, wearing their wedding hats, and watching the whole event. Bo missed it; he slept through it all. He sleeps a lot now.
Earlier in the week as I tried to explain the coming party, he didn’t get it. Why would they come here to watch something on TV? Then he asked, “Why is it so special? They do it every year, don’t they?”
Now it’s Saturday evening and I’m watching the royal wedding again. This time, I convince Bo to sit beside me and watch too. He struggles with the whole event:
Who is that in the back of the car?
Who’s getting married?
Why is it such a big deal?
I explain and explain. It’s Princess Diana’s son. It’s Queen Elizabeth’s grandson.
As Kate begins walking down the Westminster aisle, he asks, “Is she marrying that guy?” No, she’s walking with her father. “Why is she so important?” She’ll be the queen of England someday.
“You mean when she gets married?” No, sometime in the future when Queen Elizabeth dies.
“Where’s her husband?” he asks three or four times as she walks toward the altar. I explain each time.
Again, during the ceremony he asks, “What did you say these two are going to be?”
After about the seventh or eighth explanation, he says, “So they’re going to be the king and queen?” I am relieved.
I wish I could say that this only happened with the royal wedding, but I can’t. It’s the way of mostly everything we do or talk about now . The toll of this disease — the stress of trying to explain and to understand –weighs heavy on both of us. It’s a creature stretching its tentacles around all that we say and do now.