Matters of the Heart

They asked me to stop by the nurses' station during one of my recent visits with Mona. They said they had something for me. It was in a small plastic zip-lock bag, a heart shaped pendant on a gold chain with a broken link. Mona no longer knew what it was, this small, gold object dangling in front of her and so earlier that day, probably out of curiosity, she'd yanked on it and broken the chain. Thing is, I'd been considering removing it from her and taking it home so it didn't get lost but I just couldn't do it.

It was the first piece of jewelry I ever bought her.

We'd only been dating a few months but already I knew she was someone special. I'd spent much of that summer of 1973 in Europe and one day at a small shop in Amsterdam I found it. I remember wondering if she'd like it, if it was too corny, if it was too early in our relationship to give her jewelry. I took a deep breath and bought it, paying the equivalent of $12 US. When I got home I took it to a jeweler and had her name engraved on one side and my name engraved on the other. I bought a gold chain to go with it and gave it to her.

I was so relieved when she liked it. The night I gave it to her she handed it to me and asked me to hook the clasp behind her neck and for the next 43 years there were only a handful of times she took it off. Each time -- when she when into the hospital to deliver our daughters, for example -- she had me remove it and each time she asked me to put it back on her. It was almost ceremonial.

I can still see her reaching for it absent-mindedly while on the phone, while sitting at the kitchen table working out a lesson plan for her kindergarten class, while standing in the kitchen deciding what to have for dinner, while holding our grandchildren on her lap.

I can still see her wearing it while dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, while dolled-up for a night on the town, while lying asleep next to me in bed.

The sides of that small gold heart have worn over the years; it's difficult now make out our names. The engraving may have faded but the memories never will. That $12 heart is now in a safe deposit box at the bank, securely locked away like the love we'll always share.

...'till death do us part

I found my wedding vows last week. I probably hadn't seen them in twenty years.

I was looking through some old legal papers, deciding what I needed to keep and what I could toss, when I came across a large yellowed envelope that held our marriage license. They were at the bottom of that envelope, on a page stapled together with the rest of the notes from the wedding ceremony, neatly folded in thirds. Hand typed on a sheet of paper 5 1/2" by 8 1/2", they have my original editing marks in ink pen. Even back then I wanted to write tighter.

I told Mona I loved her and wanted her to be my wife. I promised to work with her and laugh with her. "I want to hold you when you need comfort," I vowed, "encourage you when you need strength and stand by you through the rough times along with the good."

That's the way it is with wedding vows, isn't it? We stand at the altar and pledge our love -- for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death parts us -- and we mean it. We really do. But we make those vows silently thinking "richer", "health" and "better". Eventually we learn there are times when it's poorer. There are times when it's sickness.

And there are times when it's worse.

Mona was in the dining room of the nursing home when I went to visit her today. I walked up to her and held out my hand. "Hi Sweetheart," I said. She looked at me for a moment, her face expressionless. "Are you Scott?" she asked. I smiled and told her I was and she said, "Good. I want to talk to you." We walked back to her room and had lunch together, spending the next 90 minutes in private. She does almost all the talking when we're together but her conversation is mostly four or five word phrases mixed in a way that rarely make sense. So I sit next to her and listen and smile a lot. And I love it when she leans over to kiss me.

I've often wondered if there's any good to be found in this, in the long, horrific illness that is Alzheimer's. And I realize that for me it comes back to my wedding vows. You see, I want my daughters and their husbands to know you can do this. You can go through impossibly difficult times as husband and wife and still stay together, still remain faithful, still remain deeply in love. And I think that's the key. No marriage escapes hardship -- no marriage -- but there are few bonds stronger than two people deeply in love.

"I give my life to be joined with yours," I told Mona as I concluded my wedding vows, "knowing we won't always agree but knowing I will always love you."

We were married February 1, 1975. Forty-one years ago. If, on the morning of our wedding, I'd known what was ahead, would I still have married her? There are several billion men on the face of the earth. I still can't believe that out of all the men He could have chosen, God let me be Mona's husband.

...To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, honor, and cherish, 'til death do us part.

I do.

Magic Moments

Sometimes it's hard for me to remember what it was like before all this happened. Before Mona was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Before she had to stop teaching. Before she had to stop driving. Before she stopped knitting or playing the piano and singing. Before she stopped cooking or caring for her house plants or reading to her grandchildren. Before -- when she'd get mad at me for eating potato chips right out of the bag ("Get-a-bowl!"), and when I'd watch her sit in front of the mirror putting on her make-up before a night out, her curves moving softly in a way men have been appreciating since Adam first noticed Eve.

Before she entered the nursing home and we stopped living together.

And until recently, I wondered which moments I'd remember better. Those "before" moments or the more recent ones, where she needs help with every aspect of daily life. Then I realized there are still moments that rival the "befores". They're different but just as good.

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Last month was one of those moments. We were in her room and I'd finished feeding her lunch. She was in her rocking chair staring out the window when she suddenly began reciting the alphabet. She started with "L"

L M N O P Q R S T U V W X

And she stopped. I waited a moment and prompted her.

"Y"

She looked at me and said, "I just thought it was a good idea."

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We can still share those husband-and-wife moments, too. A few months ago in the nursing home lounge, when I leaned over and kissed her she didn't pull away for several moments. When she did, she sighed and smiled at me and said, "Oh. That was fun."

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And if you know Mona, you know she has her sassy moments. Most of the time when I visit her I try to pull two chairs facing each other so she can look directly at me without distraction. We were sitting that way not long ago, opposite each other with our knees touching. This was one of the days when she was very emotional. On these days she sobs, but not from fear or worry or sadness.

"You make me very happy," she said, using a tissue to dab at her tears.

And then suddenly she stopped, collected herself, raised her eyebrows and got this mischievous grin on her face. She pointed between my legs and said,

"And I'm not just talking about..."

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It's rare, now, for her to be able to complete a thought but there are still moments when I know exactly what she means, even moments when she wants to reassure me.

"I'm okay," she said to me last month. "I don't want our children to be hurt."

And then she looked me in the eye, reached out and touched my lips with her fingers.

"But this beautiful love," she said. "I love that."

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The Alzheimer's has progressed to the point that she no longer recognizes our daughters and within the last few weeks she's had trouble recognizing me. She knows I'm familiar and she likes being with me. She lets me kiss her and even leans over to kiss me back. But if I ask her who her husband is she'll say "Scott" and never "You're my husband." Last week I asked her if she knew who I was and she studied my face for several moments before saying, "I don't know".

But the moments of our love are still there, even when she can't find the words to express herself. Like last month when she reached for my hand.

"I love you...", she said, pausing and struggling to remember my name.

It wasn't there so she tried again.

"I love you...", and again she stopped short.

She looked at me and tried one more time.

"I love you............Superman."

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Magic Moments all.