My Wife is a Teacher

I was going to title this entry "What My Wife Has Taught Me" or "Things My Wife Has Taught Me" but both those are in the past tense and even though she's in an advanced stage of Alzheimer's, she's still teaching. Many of you already know she taught kindergarten for many years and she's been a resident of a nursing home here in Casper, WY, for ten months. She's the youngest resident in the Alzheimer's Unit by at least 15 years and staff members have told me she's providing a valuable learning experience for the nurses and aides who care for her. They're getting to see what early-onset Alzheimer's looks like. Mona would like knowing she's still teaching.

We've been married 41 years and I can't remember a time when she wasn't curious, wasn't learning, wasn't teaching. If she didn't know something she'd research it until she did. And then she'd quiz me. Her quizzes were so common (and I so rarely knew the answer) that my go-to response to her questions became, "No, but I'm sure you want to tell me."

Sitting on our back deck watching a summer sunset. "Those clouds are beautiful," I'd say. "Yes, they are," she'd respond. "Do you know what kind of clouds they are?" (No, but I'm sure you want to tell me.) "They're cirrus clouds. You can tell by how wispy they are." And later I'd grab a dictionary and look up wispy.

Driving along a back road in rural Missouri. "Man," I'd comment, "this farmland is amazing. It stretches forever." And she'd tell me agriculture is Missouri's number one industry and then ask if I knew what was second. (No, but I'm sure you want to tell me.) "It's tourism," she'd say.

Watching television together when the program or commercial used classical music as a background. "Do you know that composer?" (No, but I'm sure you want to tell me -- and over the years we'd both be laughing as I said it.) "It's Brahms." Or, "It's Chopin." And she'd explain to me how to tell the difference.

So it's been no surprise that she still goes into teaching-mode when I visit her. And she and I are still laughing. Last November we were sitting in her room watching the snow fall in the courtyard outside her window, when she used her teaching voice. "Darling," she said, "not many people like to have an alligator in their pocket." When I burst out laughing she joined me.

And I still get quizzed. In December we were watching some birds outside her window (didn't they get the memo to fly south?) when she said, "Darling, do you know how many eagles they float in our backyard?" (No I don't, Sweetheart. But I'm sure you want to tell me.)

And for once she wasn't able to. And it broke my heart.

You see that's the thing. I know my wife is still in there; she just can't get out. There are so many things we want to say to each other that seem impossible to get across.

And yet she's still teaching me, still finding ways to reassure me.

Last month I was walking the hall with her when we stopped in front of the shadow box next to the door to her room. It contains photos of the two of us, taken from the time we were first married until a few years ago. I pointed and asked her if she recognized the people in those photos. She stared at them blankly for several seconds and then she looked up at me.

"No," she said. "But I'm sure you want to tell me."

The Peace Which Passes All Understanding

I began this blog almost four months ago with the goal of providing hope and information. It's not hard to find people who need hope -- everyone I know needs hope about something -- and I think it's always helpful to gain information. Alzheimer's is such a personal condition; there are so many things about the disease that are difficult to talk about, so many things we don't want to talk about. I've wrestled somewhat over this particular entry, wondering how much I wanted to share publicly about being a caregiver for a spouse with Alzheimer's. But I think people want to know, need to know, what it's like. 

Mona was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's in 2007. Actually, she wasn't officially diagnosed until 2010 but that's a long story. The short version is that my wife is so intelligent that for several years she was fooling the tests. She was normally so smart -- so much above normal -- that when her condition declined to the point that my daughters and I began to notice, she was actually falling into the "normal" range of the test scores. (We look back now and realize there were red flags as far back as 2006 -- ten years ago.) It took several years for the doctors to chart what was actually happening.

I've never heard her complain. She's never wondered why this happened to her, never gotten angry about her condition, never whined or become mean-spirited. The only time I saw her cry was in the very early stages. We were in the car and she was staring out the window. "I'm not afraid of Alzheimer's," she said. "The only thing I'm afraid of, is having this get to a point where I can't praise Jesus."

There have been so many "incidents" during the past nine years. Those of you who know Mona know how much she loves her house plants and her coffee. (Boy, does she love coffee. She not only had a coffee maker in her classroom at school, we had a coffee maker in our bedroom. 5:30 every morning I'd hear it begin to brew.) There was the time I smelled something burning and went into the kitchen to find a mug of coffee spinning in the microwave. Two-thirds of the coffee had boiled over the top of the mug and there were still 44 minutes on the timer. There was the time she thought her small house plants might be too cold so she warmed them up (and killed them) in the microwave. There was the time I walked into the kitchen and found her, coffee pot in hand, watering her house plants with hot coffee. There was the time I found her keys in the freezer and the time I thought a mouse had died inside one of the walls -- until I opened a seldom used cupboard and found leftovers from dinner a few weeks earlier. 

On and on.

It's easy for me to think that I'm the only one affected by all this. Easy to think it doesn't bother her because, well, she has Alzheimer's and doesn't know what's going on. But that's not true. Two years ago I walked into the kitchen one afternoon and found her standing at the sink, staring out the window. I asked her if she was all right.

"I'm tired of all this," she said. "I don't want to do this anymore. I want to go home."

Well, I said, we used to live in Missouri but now we live in Wyoming. So, we are home.

"That's not what I mean. I want to go home and be with Jesus." She stared out the kitchen window the entire time and there was no emotion in her voice.

She went into the nursing home ten months ago. I was so concerned that I'd admitted her too early, that I'd placed her there before it was necessary. Yet, she's never -- not once -- asked me to take her home or get her out of there, never wondered what she was doing in a nursing home, never asked me why I'd done this to her. She's never accused me of not loving her. I see now that what so many professional people have told me is true -- the timing for her to be admitted was nearly perfect.

You have no idea how it breaks my heart to admit that.

And now in the past few months she's giving me indications that she's aware "something" has happened, something "is" happening, and it's all right with her. It took me a while to catch on, but she began saying goodbye to me last May, only a few weeks after she was admitted. One of the nurses called me around 7:00 at night and told me Mona wanted to speak to me. When she came on the phone she told me she wanted to see me and asked if I could come over that night, even though I'd been with her earlier that day. It's the only time she's called and asked specifically if I'd come see her. We sat in the lounge of the Special Care Unit and had been together may fifteen minutes when one of the other residents, a man in his 80s, wheeled his wheelchair into the room with us. Mona got up and walked over to the man and put her hand on his shoulder. She leaned over to him and pointed toward me. "This is my husband," she told him. "His name is Scott Veatch."

And that was significant. Not only that she knew my first and last names, but could identify me as her husband. It was a clear indication to me that she was aware, that she was "in the moment". She gently wheeled the man out into the hallway and came back into the room and sat down next to me. She faced me and looked me in the eye, also significant because usually when we talk she's staring ahead. But this night she looked at me and told me four things. She told me she loved me and that she was proud of me. She thanked me for taking such good care of her and she told me to take care of myself. And then, the moment was gone.

There was no question in my mind that she was saying goodbye.

In the past few months there have been more of these indications. She's said to me things like "I'll see you soon" and "It'll be okay". These moments have become common enough that I've begun taking a pen and a note pad with me when I see her. It's so amazing. I want to remember it all. Usually, when I visit her she cries most of the time we're together. She's not sad or afraid, she's just so overcome by emotion. She wants me to know for certain that she loves me. She usually doesn't remember my name; she calls me Sweetheart or Darling. If I'm with her for an hour she'll tell me 60 times that she loves me. So when I visited her one afternoon last November and she stopped sobbing momentarily, I took notice.

"I never wanted this day to happen, Darling," she said. "I'm so sorry."

I tried to tell her everything would be all right but she wasn't finished.

"I know it won't be easy for you. I don't want you to be lonely." And then she said, "I'm not going to be a crybaby about this. I'm just going to go. Jesus is running things."

A moment later she began sobbing again. "But I don't know how to do it."

I told her Jesus would show her.

"Yes," she said.

Finally, she tried to tell me that she wanted to be with Jesus, that she really did want to go home. "I love Jesus," she said, sobbing again. "I know I'm supposed to be with Him. Are you okay with that?"

Yes, I told her. I'm very okay with that.

There have been other moments. Just before Thanksgiving I was saying goodbye at the end of one of our visits. It had been a good day for her; she hadn't been very emotional at all. Until it was time for me to leave. She began sobbing and she took my arm. "I want to stay with you," she said. Then, immediately she stopped crying. "No," she said. "That's not right. You go ahead and go."

When I saw her on Thanksgiving Day she took my hand and began praying for me. "Angels, keep him safe," she began. "Place him where he needs to be."

Her condition continues to slip dramatically. She's unable to care for herself, now. The nursing home staff dress her and feed her, and help her in the shower and the bathroom. The sentences she was able to speak to me only a few months ago, are gone. Her thoughts and words get jumbled and confused and yet, this afternoon when a group from a local church sang old Gospel hymns to the residents in the Alzheimer's unit, I watched Mona smile and sing along. "Amazing Grace" and "Power in the Blood" are still on her mental hard drive and I'm so grateful.

My wife Mona is a woman who is at peace with God. In the book of Philippians the Apostle Paul writes that "...the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Alzheimer's has stolen much from my wife but it will never steal the peace of God inside her, a peace that can't be explained.

And her mind -- yes, her mind -- is guarded by Christ Jesus with that same peace.