The Whistler

February 5, 2020

He whistled for the first hour and a half of my visit today. He's been whistling a lot lately. Whistling while pacing. Whistling while sitting. Whistling while lying in bed. Whistling to music. Whistling to no music. Whistling loudly, whistling softly. Whistling so much that one of the other residents tells him to be quiet. This request has no effect on him whatsoever, obviously.

It's interesting. I don't remember him being an avid whistler in the past, or even whistling enough for me to notice. He's actually a pretty good whistler, and that brings back memories of my father, who whistled and sang all the time. He could do lots of bird calls. When he whistled a tune, you recognized it. While these memories are pleasant, they also stab me in the heart. My dad had dementia, too, for years.

Even though each case is different, you can't help comparing one to the other. "How long had my dad been ill when he started doing this," I wonder to myself, or, "After this behavior started, how long did my dad live?" It's a morbid obsession, I suppose, but there it is.

One of the things people who are wired like I am want to know is what's coming up next. We want to know how long it's expected to last, and we want to be prepared for what's happening after that. We can handle whatever it is, so long as we know what it is. The path of this disease holds no such comforts. It holds no promises or timelines. For some, the disease runs its course with breathtaking speed. For others, not so much.

The estimate I was given when my husband was diagnosed* has come and gone, and so it feels as though we are in unchartered territory. Keep on whistling, my darling.

*He was diagnosed at the beginning of April, 2010. So, we're ten years "from diagnosis." He's had the disease longer than that, of course.