A Change of Life

  I wrote this piece several years back when my in-laws first became ill. They have both since passed away, within four months of each other.

When did life as they knew it slip away? One day they were healthy and active, and the next day the style in which they were accustomed to living had disappeared. He was the first to go. A broken hip had required a long rehabilitation. During this period the forgetfulness set in. After four automobile accidents it was decided best that he no longer drive his car. That's when the bad days came. For hours on end he would sit rubbing, over and over again, just rubbing the design on the greasy plastic tablecloth.

When he was finally taken to the hospital he was in significant pain and hadn't eaten for several days.

"I'll be just fine," he said, lifting a pointed finger as the ambulance attendant secured him in the gurney. "And I'll be back."

"You'd better be," I replied.

Days turned to weeks and the memory deteriorated. On good days he would know his son. On bad days he knew no one. Refusing to eat, he was hooked up to a feeding tube. Without it the doctors said he would starve to death.

She made the trek daily to visit him, first to the hospital and then to the nursing home. In the meantime she drove her car, ran her errands, and took care of their dog. She ate her meals with us-her son, daughter-in-law, and their children, yet she hated to impose. She felt as though she should still maintain what independence she had left.

It didn't last very long. Within a very few weeks of this new schedule, she began to tire easily.

"Probably just a cold," she said.

Probably. After all, she'd spent a lot of time with us, and our kids had all been sick.

On a Sunday we visited, as she hadn't come for dinner in three days. We brought a lunch. She ate it slowly. Her hair, normally meticulously styled, was a mess. Her face, although showing signs of her eighty-two years, was normally made up in shades of pink. Today it was gray.

"Take her to the hospital," I urged my husband. I knew there and then that we were about to become caregivers.

My husband was in denial. At fifty years old, he had been blessed with the gift of two healthy, and very active parents. For his entire life they have lived in that house next to the business that he has run since graduating from college. Now he sees his father, a shell of the man he was, his memory failing, and his mind often childlike.

"She's a stubborn one," he says, referring to his ailing mom.

"She needs a doctor," I urge.

Admitted to the hospital that night, she spends the first of many nights away from the home she has known for more than fifty years. In the morning I do not recognize the lady I find.

"Is this her normal baseline?" I am asked over and over again, first by a doctor, and then by two nurses.

"No!"

I explain how she is typically a vibrant lady. I mention how active she is and that only a few days ago she drove her car to Boston for the family business and shopped daily for their groceries.

An hour later she is moved to intensive care. I phone my husband. He comes within the hour. He phones his sister who lives 1500 miles a way.

"You'd better get a flight home," he tells her.

The next few days are good and bad, bad and then good again. She drifts in and out of sleep, and the confusion becomes more and more apparent. We visit one night and she seems good. She knows our names. She eats a McDonald's hamburger and an apple pie. She asks about her dog.

The next morning she doesn't know my name, or even where she is.

"How did I get here?" she asks.

This is the pattern now. From day to day it changes.

Yesterday they brought her to the home. They put her across the hall from the love of her life. Now at least they could spent time together each day. He shuffles across the hall often to sit by her. Mostly she just dozes. When she wakes up she laughs a deep and throaty laugh that makes us think she's back for good.

In the afternoon he tries to take her for a walk, but is scolded.

"She can't go that far!" they tell him.

At nighttime we go to the home and visit. I bring chocolate chip cookies, and they both eat one. This is a good sign.  Anything they can eat is beneficial, as they both need to gain back some of their strength.

But will a cookie help the fleeting thoughts? Will food make the memory return to its former state?

No one knows. No one gives us any answers.

He seems happy as he sits by his beloved. He smiles at every move she makes.

"Poor old girl, she's not what she used to be," he says.

At least he can remember how she used to be.

Is this their life now? Are they destined to shuffle back and forth across a nursing home hallway for the remainder of their days? And if so, it is really so bad?

I spend too much time wondering if there is happiness inside their shells. I wonder if they can still feel our love for them and their love for each other.

I am saddened by this sudden change of life. All the others have been more gradual. The graying hair, the wrinkles, the slowing of pace, these all came on slowly and in intervals. This last change was abrupt.

My sadness is mild compared to the grief my husband feels. His life as he's always known it is profoundly changing. It is completely out of his hands, and in God's hands alone.

Are these changes permanent? Only God knows. It is not for us to know. Instead it is our job, and in all fairness our privilege to walk this path with these two lovers. It is our job to preserve all they still share, and make certain that they continue to share it.

And amidst the sorrow and the abrupt change of all we know, we will grow. We will learn more compassion. We will practice patience and empathy. And we will feel a strengthening of our own love and understanding for each other.

God gives us many gifts and they come in many different forms. Rather than dwell on the sorrow these changes evoke, I choose instead to see this as another gift from the Lord. For I do believe we are being given a gift that many do not receive. We are being offered a chance to love and pray and slowly but surely to say goodbye.