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.
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.