A couple of years ago I read Lisa Genova’s novel, Still Alice and, over the last couple of days, Anthony and I watched the movie. For those who haven’t seen or read the story, Still Alice is about how a linguistics professor, Alice, is diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease at the age of 50 and how she and the family cope.
I suppose it was a strange choice of film to watch with a husband who has Parkinson’s disease dementia (and was probably a contributing factor in the grief I felt the other evening). But yesterday, as he and I watched the final scenes, he suddenly became quite engaged in Alice’s deterioration, and asked me what was wrong with her. I keep the dvd controller close so I can pause whatever we are watching whenever Anthony says anything.
Me: She has Alzheimer’s disease.
Anthony: It’s worse now, isn’t it.
Me: Yes.
I had paused the film at a particularly stark close-up of Alice’s confused expression (Julianne Moore is brilliant as the character Alice). Anthony and I both looked at her face for a few moments then I hit the play button again and we watched silently as the movie came to an end.
Unlike Alice, Anthony has not had to experience the creeping horror of knowing he has dementia. He still doesn’t know and I don’t tell him because I don’t want him to be afraid or embarrassed. So, when he asks where his mother is, or how she is (this is a frequent question) I just say that she is fine.
Anthony: Is she at home?
Me: Yes.
Anthony: Is Ming there too?
Me: Yes, and they’re both fine.
Anthony: So when are we going to Golden Valley?
Me: When the weather gets warmer, Ants. It’s too cold today.
Anthony’s mother died over 30 years ago and Golden Valley was his childhood home so the only ‘real’ aspect to these conversations is Ming.
I’ve recovered from my grief episode of the other evening and, since watching Still Alice, realise how lucky we are that Anthony has never had to go through that fear-of-dementia experience because it has just happened, insidiously, slowly, kindly even. He doesn’t know he has dementia; he still recognises all of us; there is still a lot of laughter and Anthony’s one-liners are hilarious.
Anthony: You need to brush your hair.
Me: I just did!
Anthony: Do it again, it’s not right.
Me: I’ll shave your head if you keep hassling me!
Anthony: Feisty!
Still Anthony.
Tonight I am in a state of such grief about Anthony that it is as if my eyes are inventing tears over and over again. I know he is cared for, and popular with staff, and I know he has gotten over his terrible fear of the hoist but of course I still worry.
Mostly I can manage the grief, but sometimes I just have to succumb to it by crying and crying and crying until I, once again, reach a point of acceptance, and the anticipation of tomorrow when I will see Anthony again.
Ming and I talked about it tonight – this grief thing – but we were unable to come to an agreement about how to cope. We both love Anthony so much; we both feel guilty to have placed him in the nursing home; but we are also happy that neither of us has the burden of care anymore.
We can just love Anthony now and that’s what I said to Ming tonight. But the grief is potent and present and debilitating.
I just hope that Anthony knows how much I love him, even when he forgets who I am.
Grief has gutted me lately, but it’s not going to win!
There are all sort of theories out there that encourage people to combat their despair, depression, and personal tragedies, with positive strategies and tips. Many of these theories and tips are extremely helpful. In fact there are probably more resources now than ever before and it can be a confusing array for someone who is in despair. Nevertheless, despair is despair is despair and I have found, within my own ongoing situation with Anthony’s Parkinson’s disease and other situations (which we all have), that accepting these moments of despair is much more useful than trying to frolic them away on the back of platitudinous clouds. Clouds wouldn’t be clouds if they were constantly shot through with those over-heated parasites of despair. Don’t get me wrong; I am not in despair but it does have a habit of visiting me unexpectedly from time to time and last week it became such a pest that I had to politely ask it to leave. And, hey presto – whatever that means – it was gone! Okay I have my nouns, verbs and metaphors a bit mixed up but what the hell; I don’t teach at the university any more so, as far as I’m concerned, my sentences can do what they want. And the point of this post? The enormous power of humour. Ming, Ants, Meg and I watched our favourite comedy series this week and, even though Anthony’s ability to laugh loudly like he used to, has gone, there were a lot of smiles. The despair left the room with its tail between its legs and, next time it decides to pay a visit I will be armed and ready – with laughter! There is so much more I could say about this but I will save it for another post because it can be quite exhausting laughing despair away!
Every day I look forward to going in to the nursing home to be with Anthony. His room has now become home to me; Ming throws his big self onto the bed, my mother knits, friends and relatives visit us here, and staff are welcoming with cups of tea and jokes. I love being in this room.
Anthony and I decided to just have one child, Menzies (Ming). I don’t quite remember now why we made this decision but it was probably due to the fact that Anthony was already nearly 60 when we got married. I do remember, however, that this was a mutual decision.
Now that Ming is 21, Anthony is in the nursing home, and I am once again a lady of leisure (ha!) it is with some astonishment that I look at this boy/man. How on earth did Ming survive all of those years of Anthony’s illnesses? How did he manage, as a teenager, to share the ‘night shifts’ with me? How did he put up with my anxious, endless tears? How did he not mind the way I would escape to my office when I came home from my job at the university? How did he cope with the fact that our once boisterous life became so quiet and desolate as Anthony’s Parkinson’s disease encroached? And how did Ming undergo his two spinal surgeries, give up football, his dairy farming job, and motorbike adventures, with so much dignity and acceptance?
I am so proud of him. Ming is the loud, boisterous epitome of how Anthony once was; he is the life of the party, the polite guest, the gentleman; he is never shy but often uncertain. Last night I came home to see him on the front lawn with his arms outstretched. I stopped my car on the driveway and rolled down the window and this was our conversation:
Me: What are you doing?
Ming: Just wanted to greet you with a hug!
Me: Why?
Ming: You are the only person I really trust.
Me: I visited the women in the dementia cottage today.
Ming: Why?
Me: Because I love those women! It doesn’t matter that I’m no longer employed – I can still visit.
Ming: You are the most beautiful woman, Mum, I really mean that.
So proud – our only child.
Okay so I’ve been reading Tolle and trying to do all of that ‘being in the now’ stuff and I think I have a better handle on things.
In dementia there seems to be an unhappening; today is simply today, this minute, second, moment is just that. Memories are painful and confusing and the future is bleak. Now becomes all-important.
So today I visited my friends in the dementia cottage with a completely different attitude. As an ex-staff member I felt the wonderful freedom of just being a visitor!
I did a whole lot of hugging today.
Yesterday, a nurse and her husband visited the nursing home with their beautiful newborn in his pram. I bumped into them in the hallway outside Anthony’s room and was absolutely thrilled to see this beautiful baby and asked them if they could wheel the pram into Anthony’s room so he could see the baby. Of course they were delighted to do so.
But then everything went wonky. For the entire afternoon, Anthony was distressed about the baby.
Anthony: We already have one; we don’t need another baby.
Me: He isn’t our baby, Ants! They just wanted to show him off to you!
Anthony: Where’s the baby?
Me: He’s gone home with his parents; he isn’t our baby, Ants!
Anthony: I’m worried about our baby.
Me: Please, Anthony, he is not our baby; they were just visiting!
I was with Ants for the whole afternoon and, every time he woke up from dozing, he became anxious about the baby. I have never seen him this confused before so I guess we are entering a new phase.
One of the things I’ve learned over the last year or so is that I don’t need to do anything, go somewhere, think of an activity, plan an event, force Anthony to converse, figure out how to get loved ones to visit him more, stress myself wretched with ideas of how to make his life better … I just have to be there.
So that is what I do now – an undoing really – a breath-saving realisation of how simple it is. I sit next to this beautiful husband of mine, with my hand on his shoulder, or stroking his head, watching television, talking about the past, sharing secrets, rejoicing in our son, Ming, smiling at each other, joking about silly things ….
We are so conditioned to do, do, do! It is such a great relief to simply be there, to embrace the long stretches of silence when Anthony is dozing, to quietly rejoice in the fact that our love has not been diminished by his disease, to just be.
jmgoyder 