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.