A Night OFF

I spent this night away from Cindy. It was the first night off from being her caregiver in 2 ½ years; it likely will be the last off.

There were contradictory reasons for taking this night off, depending how the final stage of our journey plays out. On the one hand I wanted to see how Cindy would handle sleeping in a bed alone without me, in case sleeping apart from each other becomes necessary for whatever reason. On the other hand I wanted one night apart to clear my head, be prepared for the final journey so that I might be right there next to her until the end.

People with Alzheimer’s seldom have that listed on their death certificates. No, they die instead from consequences of the disease, such as no longer being able to eat or infections from bedsores. I now believe I’ll be able to handle any of these tragic scenarios, with the help of hospice care if need be.

Of course, I wish that Cindy’s passing will not be tragic, but more like the mother in the movie The Cobbler instead. She spends one last very happy evening and then passes away in the night. Happy until the end, can this be possible?

When people ask me about Cindy that is my stock reply: “she’s happy.” Unlike most other diseases, once you get to a certain point of cognitive decline there is no hopeful report of “she’s getting better;” I assume everybody who asks me about Cindy knows that. A report that “she’s happy” is the best news I can deliver. So far, I’ve been telling the truth.

Yet that is precisely my fear, not that there will come a time when I have to deal with bedsores, but rather a time when I no longer can report “she’s happy.” Lately I’ve had an uneasy feeling that such a time may be near at hand. A couple mornings ago Cindy was sad because of the trouble she had going down the stairs. I threw my arms around her and said: “I love you.” She started sobbing. I joked: “Geesh, that always happens when I tell a woman I love her.” She smiled a little, but not much.

That is the essence of why I have this night off, for likely the last time on our wonderful journey together. I’m prepared for the physical hardships of being an early onset Alzheimer’s caregiver. Hopefully, I’ll return home better prepared as well for the emotional hardship of no longer being able to make her smile. Pray for a passing like The Cobbler, but also for me being able to handle the alternative.