Because I Love You

It's been two years since Mona went into the nursing home. At times it seems like yesterday and at others it seems like forever. She could still function to a certain extent back then, to the point that during her first few days in Life Care Center some staff members mistook her for a fellow employee. Now, every day seems to present new struggles. She no longer recognizes our daughters and though she recognizes me most of the time, she's forgotten my name. One day last week when I walked up to her she smiled at me and said, "Oh, you're my tall man." And she needs help with nearly everything: eating, getting dressed, bathing, using the bathroom.

It's easy for me to focus only on those things she no longer can do for herself but I try to find things we can still do together. Sometimes when we're alone in her room or in the lounge of the Alzheimer's unit I'll play some music on my phone and we'll slow dance together. One of my favorites is a song the Dave Clark 5 recorded back in the 1960s.

It's right that I should care about you
And try to make you happy when you're blue
It's right, it's right to feel the way I do
Because, because I love you

I don't ever recall asking God why this happened to us, why this happened to her. But there have been times I've wondered why she has to struggle so. There have been times I've wondered why she's slipping away so slowly. And honestly, there have been times I've wondered why she's still here. 

About a month ago I was walking in a back hallway at Life Care Center, on my way to see Mona. As I got to the nurses' station outside the Alzheimer's unit there were two nurses talking. When they looked up and saw me they both smiled.

"Oh, this is so funny," one of them said. "We were just talking about you and how much you love your wife."

I was surprised. I didn't remember seeing either of them before.

"That's right," the other one said. "We've seen you dancing with her."

Give me one kiss and I'll be happy
Just, just to be with you
Give me, give me a chance to be near you
Because, because I love you

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.

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."