If you are caregiver for someone with dementia, you may relate to an experience Kate and I had last night. From the time of her diagnosis, we have spoken very little about her Alzheimer’s. Most of that came in the first year. Since that time most of what has been said is Kate’s saying that she thinks she is getting along pretty well and my agreeing.
In addition, conversation itself has been different. In the early years, we took time for conversation over many other things. We started regularly sitting down and talking on the patio or in our family room over a glass of wine. The conversations themselves often gravitated to the many memories of our lives together. Somewhere along the way we talked specifically about how fortunate we have been.
Over time, Kate’s memory has waned. That makes conversation for her more difficult. Most of our time together is spent in silence. I have to say this has been something of a challenge for me. I grew up with a mother and father who talked continuously. I am a big talker myself. It actually feels awkward for me to sit across the table from her at a restaurant in silence. Kate is gifted when it comes to ordinary social conversation but is not as driven to talk as I am. During our marriage, I have learned to appreciate her need for private time. Thus, I haven’t been surprised that with her Alzheimer’s, she often tells me not to talk or to “tell me about it tomorrow.” That is my intro to last night.
After we returned home from dinner, Kate dressed for bed and worked puzzles on her iPad. I turned on the TV to one of the football games. About an hour later, Kate said she was going to call it a night. She closed her iPad and went to the bathroom. In a few minutes, I heard her saying, “Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .” I have never understood this, but it is something she says periodically. When I ask, as I did again last night, she says that nothing is wrong.
As she left the bathroom, she stopped in front of me and told me she loved me and how much she appreciated everything I do for her. Then she got into bed. As she lay there, I could hear her whimpering. I went to her and sat by her on the edge of the bed. I asked her if she were sure she was all right. Again, she said she was fine. I left her a moment and went to the bathroom where I noticed that she had hung her underwear on a towel to dry. I assumed she had had an accident. I went back to her and tried to comfort her. She couldn’t tell me anything except to say she had been reminiscing. I turned off the TV, turned out the lights, and got into bed with her. For the next 30-45 minutes, we talked about our lives together, our honeymoon, the places we had lived, our children and grandchildren, and our travels. It was a very special moment. I hadn’t heard her talk that much in a very long time. As we talked, she calmed down, and we fell asleep.
I’ll never be sure how to explain what happened to bring this on. I suspect, however, it is one of those times when she realizes how much she is declining and losing control. My own feelings were very mixed. I loved being able to have such an easy flowing conversation with her. On the other hand, I can’t help feeling sad to think of her recognition of her current state.
Today should be another bright spot in our Christmas season. We are driving to Asheville where we are going to see the musical Annie. We’ll have a couple of nice meals and enjoy another stay at the Haywood Park Hotel.
