Cindy had remained in her chair the whole time a companion was over, the chair I call the throne. I help Cindy off the throne just before I sit down on a bench to play guitar. I get her up periodically to prevent sores, get her blood circulating, keep her awake throughout the day … and because I just hate the thought of an Expedition Woman becoming a vegetable.
Cindy seldom wandered throughout her dementia. Yet even if she did, the gate across the top of the stairs would prevent a catastrophic fall. I always answer “no” when asked by care agencies if Cindy has had a fall, but that’s not completely honest. There were times when Cindy would have fallen had I not been close enough to intervene. Cindy also fell to the floor once while I was zipping up her coat, but I was able to break that fall.
Cindy has been vulnerable to falling since the summer of 2015. I say “no” about her falling because a serious fall has not been a concern or likely; I am never far from Cindy’s side when she is standing. Nor was I far from her now, as she stood in the doorway watching me play guitar.
I have the metronome on my iPad on, as I usually do when I’m practicing the visual symphony I am composing to raise funds and awareness for brain health. The timing of the guitar has to be synchronized with the slides that are shown on a screen. This requires some concentration but I always have one wary eye on Cindy.
Cindy shuffles slightly back into the hallway, looking dazed. I stop playing as alarms go off in my head. She’s going to fall! Even with this premonition I am unable to jump up in time to prevent the inevitable. She tips over backwards and bumps the back of her head against the doorway to the bathroom. Upon impact her body buckles and she slumps to the floor.
Cindy lets out a little scream in the process, sending a jolt of adrenaline rushing through my body. Paranoid apprehension of a head injury added to dementia races through my mind for a second. Yet 30 years of marriage, 36 years as partners, tells me this is not an injury scream.
Instead, Cindy lays on her side, whimpering, breathing fast, terrified of her own helplessness. Though I deduce she is not injured, may not even be hurt, I make no effort to get her up. I lie on the floor next to her, my right arm draped over her left shoulder. My hand does an assessment of her head, finding neither bump nor cut. With that added assurance I seek to calm her down, mainly by just lying on the floor with her.
I offer no jokes for this occasion, no “all the women lose their balance around me.” I whisper to her softly that everything is fine, the fall was no big deal, while stroking her hair. The whimpers stop; her breathing slows down. I reflect on a morbid thought as we continue to lie quietly on the floor.
I’ve met every caregiver challenge so far; I’ve grown in confidence that I can handle whatever else happens … except for one thing. I remain spooked that some morning, not too far in the future, I will awake to Cindy having passed away next to me in bed. That thought gives me the creeps.
Yet lying on the floor next to her as the fear and tension subsides from her body gives me a strangely calm feeling that I can handle Cindy passing away in the daytime, with me right there to keep her calm in her passing. I snap back to the present and help Cindy back to her feet. From this point on I will never let her stand without having at least one hand on her.
I hold Cindy for a few more moments. Now the time is right.
“Don’t let that fall bother you,” I say, “All the women lose their balance around me.”
Cindy laughs. She may not even remember the fall by now, but she still knows when I’m telling a bad joke. Everything is back to normal.
