The Stranger
Tue., September 2, 08:11 AM
There is a stranger in my house. Oh, I have official documents that say I have been married to the same man for forty years (as of today). That’s half of his life, more than half of mine. On the outside he looks as if he could be the same man, but I don’t know the guy inside. The one I married left me some time ago.
It is a little weird; he doesn’t seem to have the symptoms of Alzeimer’s. But three separate medications don’t fix anything; they just keep him from getting worse. The psychiatrists who see him once or twice a year can’t see it because he still goes through their tests — sort of.
I try to draw him into conversations: “Oh, there’s that song you said you like.” No, if he pays any attention at all, he’ll tell me he doesn’t like that song. He always got a kick out of watching me knit or crochet. Not any more. Not only was he not interested in what I had made; I printed him a copy of the photo (of our son!) that I used in my August 26 post, and he just waved me off.
I’ve tried telling him the kind of jokes he used to like. Forget it. As he becomes progressively weaker physically, he isn’t even giving the day care nurse “Archie Bunker razzberries.” I mentioned to the nurse that I seem to be waiting, just waiting for him to collapse again.
This is not much different from when I used to come home from work just to check and make sure he was breathing. I still do that, y’know. It’s just impossible to maintain that level of fear forever. I think I’ve gone from terror to resignation.
Last week he went to the director of the day care center and asked about going into the nursing home. Evidently the stress of depending on U.D. without my being there made an impression on him. (Gee, if I had known he’d do that, I would have tried taking a weekend off a long time ago!) More than that, though he ’d never admit it, is his increasing weakness. Maybe I have convinced him that he just isn’t going to get better.
As I explained to the director, it’s pretty well out of my hands. And I explained it to him too, that we put our son in charge (that is, he has power of attorney). Husband was so sure I’m “out to get him” that there was no way I would tell him, “you have to go.” If I had, he would have resisted until they had to carry him out! I could answer most of his questions (such as, “can I go into the VA hospital?”) because I had done a lot of that research. Son already knows he has to do this; it was obvious that day that we went out to dinner. I suspect that everyone except U.D. may have thought I was exaggerating until that day.
How do I feel about it all? As I said, I can’t maintain the level of fear I felt; that has become resignation. I am sad that we could not have the kind of retirement we envisioned — old songs can now make me very sad indeed. I am also angry — and surprised that I’m angry — that he has “left me,” after I stayed with him all these years. (Add that to the anger I feel because he brought these illnesses on himself, and I am a very angry old lady.) Nevertheless, I am looking forward to reclaiming some of the freedom I’ve lost over the last couple of years. Or at least, trying to reclaim it. I am still firmly convinced he will outlive me and, many years from now, my grandchild will be receiving complaints from the nursing home: “Your grandfather is causing trouble again…”
Under different circumstances, we would be celebrating. I shall make meat loaf tonight, maybe with potato pancakes, one more time. Whether he will appreciate it is a question.
