Stage 8

Stage 7 is considered the "final stage" of Alzheimer's; and, for the person suffering from the illness, it is. The completion of Stage 7 is the end of the marathon for the patient, the passing through the veil that separates mortality from eternal life in the presence of the Lord. For my husband, the years of unkind and relentless suffering have come to an end. He is himself again, only better. Healed. Whole. But the suffering is not over for me. I'm in what's known as "Stage 8" of Alzheimer's, the grief and limbo that follows the death of the loved one. 

When we were united in marriage, we started becoming "one," two halves of a whole. It was a process. As time went on, we became more and more "one" rather than two wholes living life together. We learned to understand, or at least tolerate, each other's needs and wants and quirks. We were never joined at the hip, and we gave each other space to pursue interests. He did his things. I did my things. We did our things together. We had hit our stride (even though, to be fair, we still drove each other crazy at times) and were looking forward to retiring in a few years, traveling, growing old together. Life had taken on a golden glow. It was satisfying.

I remember driving down the freeway on a beautiful, sunny day, alone with my thoughts, admiring the scenery. I breathed in deeply, smiled, and said to myself, "Life is so good!" Immediately, I felt a sense of foreboding. It was strange. I should have thrown a little salt over my shoulder or something. But I digress, as I have a tendency to do.

Then the horror of Alzheimer's struck, a slap in the face out of nowhere. It was a difficult, painful, arduous trial by fire for both of us. And yet, through it all, we somehow became closer than we had ever been. Our bond was tighter. Our connection was stronger. My love for him was powerfully focused in a whole new way. I willed for him to be well, to live, with all my being, all the while knowing he might not. And he didn't. It's been almost six months since he left me. My heart yearns for him. It's so hard to let him go.

I am alone with my thoughts. They wander. I stare out the kitchen window at my neglected garden. I ponder the electronic display that cycles through our pictures, giving me glimpses of happier times (and also sad times) when my Beloved was here, alive, smiling at me. I wonder what I am going to do with whatever time I have left before I join him on the other side. Who am I now, in this up-and-down, roller-coaster-ride called grief? Sometimes I care about these things very much, and other times I really don't care at all. I am in a state of suspended animation, in limbo. It's a day-by-day, moment-by-moment journey into the unfathomable unknown.

I'm not the same person I was when we started down this Alzheimer's journey. How can I be? Half of me has been painfully, inexorably ripped away in one of the most torturous and cruel ways possible. There's a gaping, bleeding wound where my other half used to be that is slowly, slowly, perhaps a bit too optimistically, trying to start healing. 

It takes a while for gaping wounds to heal, though. Sometimes, it takes a long while. A scab tries to form but is ripped off repeatedly by painful memories, what ifs, and I wonders. The scar that will eventually replace the scab will, I'm told, be stronger than the surrounding area. It will be a reminder that there has been a wound but will be a sign of healing, renewed strength, and survival. It will be a sign that I am going to make it through and that a light will appear at the end of the tunnel. 

Here we are, at the end of this terrible annus horribilis. As we turn the page and start a new chapter, I do wish all of you a very happy new year, full of blessings. Good health, much love, and a prosperous life to you in 2021!

This Is Real

Our son and I went to decorate my husband's grave with a Christmas wreath today as part of the Wreath Project at the Sacramento Valley National Cemetery. The graves will all receive this honor next week, but families are invited to participate early; and, for obvious reasons, we wanted to be the ones to decorate this particular grave.

If you have never been to a national cemetery, driving through the gate, down the flag-lined lane, past rows and rows of identical headstones meticulously placed just so, the thick grass kept very green and manicured with military precision, is a breathtaking experience. Here, each grave is maintained beautifully as a matter of honor. It makes an impression.

It is a privilege to visit my husband's grave, knowing there won't be weeds covering his grave marker as there so heartbreakingly often are at the cemetery where my parents are buried, where the barest decent minimum is done. But I digress again.

As our son and I stepped out of our vehicle, walked across the grass to my husband's grave, and placed our wreath, I was again overwhelmed by the enormity of the great chasm of separation that exists between my husband and me now. Or maybe it's just a thin veil. Either way, he's gone, and I'm not. Not yet, anyhow. 

It slapped me in the face once more, as it always does when I'm there looking at his headstone, that this is real. Really real. Even though I still half expect him to be watching television downstairs when I go down there, or almost hear him coming through the door announcing his presence with an, "I'm home!" Even though I can nearly sense his presence sometimes, or maybe that's just me wishing I could.

I guess I still can't believe he's gone. It hits me like a ton of bricks every time. My heart breaks. Again. And I cry. Again. Still. How I miss him and wish things were different. But they aren't, and perhaps I'll learn to accept that. Someday.

If you would like to help honor the veterans who are buried at this National Cemetery, donations are accepted year-round for this "home grown" project. There are over 40,000 veterans buried in this cemetery, which was opened in 2006. Donation instructions here.