Thursday, December 31, 2020

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!

6 comments:

  1. Christiane, On this New Years Day, following my breakfast I proceeded to update my email and facebook activity during the final days of 2020. Since the entire year was filled with many occasions of sadness and upset over Covid-19, it was difficult. On reviewing facebook, I came across your link to the alzheimers diaries and decided to read your recent blogs therein. Your beautiful writing privides me with great admiration of your resiliance and devotion to Harry's situation over his last few years. I admire you and your children for coping with it throughout. Well done. I and my wife, Anna, wish you and your family a very happy 2021 and many years thereafter. We look forward to meeting you again when life returns to normal. In the meantime, keep safe and thank you for your inspirational writing. With love to all your family, Donal and Anna.

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    1. Thank you for your encouragement and support through the years! Wishing you, Anna, and your beautiful and loving family a happy, healthy, and prosperous New Year.

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    2. Chris, I am so grateful for your chronicle of this journey. While I am at times projecting myself into Stage 8, I cannot really know it until I have to live it. It occurs to me that Stage 8 starts, in some respects, with the initial diagnosis. But there can be no doubt that the finality of losing a spouse is a beginning all its own. I am grateful that Alzheimer's gives us a chance to prepare ourselves on some level, though. A sudden loss would be harder in some ways, I think.

      I am grateful for the example you have set. I know you believe you did it imperfectly, but I have learned much from you and you should know that my own journey has been made easier through the things I learned from you. Your humorous approach to some of Harry's developments has validated my own coping system, your tears have allowed me to grieve more deeply, your bewilderment has told me that it's okay to not have all the answers, and your insights have stirred me to learn more about this disease. Without these things I would have been much more isolated, unprepared, and unable to cope as I watch my dear Linda slip away.

      Your interaction with your friends and your transparency with your experiences has taught me that we are all part of a community, and that, "when one suffers, all suffer," and that the load is made a little lighter as a result. That is so true of Linda! Our "community" mostly consists of her friends who only know me through her. When she is gone, many of them will naturally drift away from me. But it has been wonderful having them close during this time. Some will remain close, and I will be richer for going through this experience, and for having them along for the ride. These "friends of my best friend" have been a special gift; a form of new-found wealth I would have never known without Alzheimer's.

      Anyway I am rambling a bit here, but I wanted you to know how much I appreciate you personally, and how important your account of this journey is to me. I hope you will continue to leave these markers along this dark trail. As I find them, they are helping to light my way.

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    3. I hardly know how to respond to your very kind words, my friend, so I will just say "thank you" for now.

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  2. Hi Chris - thank you for putting all your feelings into words -it helps and has helped me deal with my Mom's illness and her final departure in December. Alone in the nursing home because of Covid. You are right, what a horrible year 2020 was! Some days I want to forget it completely, and other days I just sit and wonder what the heck happened!
    Love,
    Chantal

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    1. Oh, Chantal. I am very sorry to hear of your mom's passing. COVID has robbed us of so much and has been especially hard on those in nursing homes. It's been a tragic Annus Horribilis! Sending you a big hug.

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