When a Simple “Yeah” Will Do

We may have gone for our last long outing of the year. Our adult stroller may allow us to continue on shorter outings as late fall and winter arrives, but I will have to balance the health advantages of being outdoors with the comfort disadvantages for Cindy. For now, the fall colors were vibrant still as we went on our ten mile route.

Cindy is most verbal during these outings, reminding me of our early days as a couple. Our circle of long distance hiking friends used to call her “Gabby Galvin” (her maiden name) for her ease and frequency of chatting while hiking with others. Usually she would talk about hers or someone else’s hobbies—such as cooking, gardening, pressing flowers—but not always.

During a town stop in the midst of a seven month hike Cindy caught up on the “news,” discovering that Cher had purple hair. That became her topic of choice for the next stretch. That she was talking to a bunch of unkempt, literally down-to-earth, mountain men/women did not matter. We never let her forget her obsession with Cher’s hair afterwards (mostly I never let her forget, but others as well).

Yet even when talking about the color of Cher’s hair, Cindy was pleasing to hear chat. A close friend of Cindy’s, from the days of raising our families, recalls how they would go for trail runs together. She reports fondly on conserving her breath during these runs, while Cindy would chat away as if they were out for a leisurely stroll. 

Once Cindy’s cognitive decline started so did her chatting, an unavoidable consequence of people becoming less sure of themselves. As we walked across the country to reboot Cindy’s life people often remarked we must have much to talk about while hiking. My stock answer was we had little to talk about, since we both were witnessing the same things all the time.

Yet there were still moments of Cindy’s old chatty self, such as whenever we stopped to check the map. The conversation would be one-sided, my mind focused on finding our way while Cindy observed and talked about our surroundings. Our “conversations” went something like this:

My mind: (Where in hell are we?!)

Cindy: “These are nice flowers over here.”

My mind: (Oh, here we are. How did we end up here?!)

Cindy: “I am going to take a picture of these.”

My mind: (There’s no water for the next ten miles!)

Cindy: “What a colorful rock! I will add it to my collection.”

Cindy was one of the few long distance hikers who collected and packed rocks! Only now I was often the one packing them for her. No matter, we walked across the country to remove Cindy’s stress. Experiences and “conversations” like these seemed to indicate the strategy was working. I would carry any amount of rocks for that.

At this point in Cindy’s decline “verbal” means barely audible mumbling, void of distinct words. If Cindy was a mere acquaintance I pushed around in the stroller I would not have any idea what her mumbling was about. Given our past experiences of Cindy marveling at flowers and rocks, while I worried about being lost, I am fairly confident her mumbling while outdoors is a good thing.

Our ten mile route includes a side trip to Wood Creek Pond, a nice place to take a break. Wood Creek Pond was the setting for my blog post titled “I uv oo,” made a year ago. By that time she already was fully incapacitated and I had not heard her utter more than one word at a time. She pleasantly surprised me by instinctively returning my three word expression of love. I suspect being surrounded by natural beauty helped.

A similar thing happened a year later. These days I do not hear even a single word enunciated properly. However, as we paused to observe the fall colors I commented: “Isn’t this a nice place?”

“Yeah,” Cindy replied in a barely audible voice, but very distinctly enunciated.

Much of dementia follows a gradual decline, barely perceptible from one day to the next. Occasionally, there are markers of decline, such as the markers I noted for how far Cindy could walk. The decline in her gift for gab provides another set of tangible markers.

Thirty-five years ago Cindy was known as Gabby Galvin and chatted about things like Cher’s hair. Twenty-five years ago she loved to chat even while trail running. Ten years ago her decline had begun but she could carry on a one-sided conversation when moved by the beauty around her. A year ago she could utter a three word expression of love. Last week she uttered a simple “yeah.”

Taken in sequence these markers paint a sad picture of inevitable decline. Yet each one, considered only in the moment, provided a moment of elation. That is the way with Alzheimer’s, a condition for which a simple “yeah” will do.