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."