Stealing Lives

Like a sneak thief, Alzheimer’s disease comes quietly. Although it steals only a tiny bit at a time, it invades relentlessly. Gradually, the victim’s losses -- memory, self-awareness, dignity -- become visible to the world. The losses of spouse and family are almost invisible. These may be the cruelest of all because these victims are fully aware.
Now that the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease are so obvious in my husband Fred, I am continuously reminded of my own losses as well as his. Dear friends inquire often about Fred’s condition, often expressing their dismay at what he has lost, at the disintegration of someone so involved in living. But, while they express concern for my health and my ability to meet his current needs, they never ask what I have lost. I’d like them to understand.
Conversation
During the busy period of our marriage, mealtime was the highlight of my day. Fred worked long hours as an aeronautical engineer, my days were full as a mother, student, homemaker, but at mealtimes we had time to talk, to discuss our needs and expectations. It was usually a time we exchanged ideas or perhaps plans for the next day. Now, mealtime is quiet because conversation has disappeared. There are no ideas to ponder, no plans to make, no opinions about politics, or neighbors. Good conversation was so ever present at our home that I took it for granted. Losing it has been painful.
Decision Making
I have also lost a partner in decision-making. There were always the big decisions – what house to buy, when to buy a new care, where to invest money, and where Phyllis should go to college. But the little decisions -- what to have for supper, what movie we would see – these were the everyday decisions that made the day go well. Fred did not really care how we arranged the furniture or what flowers we planted outside, but he would offer opinions when asked. He would help if I needed it. Now, I must make every decision alone. I miss his voice deeply.
Travel
From the beginning of our life together, we agreed completely on the joy of traveling. For the first years there was no money for long or expensive trips, but we found ways to enjoy weekend jaunts and brief visits with our families. In time, we were able to save for specific targets – to Europe, cruises to the Caribbean area, even to the Orient – and there was always a plan in waiting for the next time. Now, for the past ten years, there have been no trips more than 30 miles from home. There are no plans in the future, and that is a great loss.
Handyman Help
I have lost my handyman. Fred was not always the best handyman I have known, but he was there. Now I must hire someone to do seemingly simple chores, like check the smoke alarms, turn over the king-size mattress, move a heavy piece of furniture, or repair a broken chair leg. My neighbor sets the sprinkler for me, and a yard man mows the lawn. Now when I have to change a lock on a door, I call for help. At this point, Fred is more likely to cause a problem inadvertently than to cure one, so I must be constantly vigilant. I miss having Fred’s help.
Companionship
I miss the companionship shared at the close of a busy day, when we slowed down and talked about each other and what comes next. We took this time to go quietly about preparing for the next day, knowing that each of us would be there to help the other. Now, I am painfully aware that Fred does not even recall those times. We can no longer enjoy remembering together the things that have made up our long lives. I miss my companion.
I express my loss not as a complaint but only to describe extent to which Alzheimer’s disease affects those who care for the afflicted one. My life is altered irrevocably because I’ve lost the everyday ease once present when things were more normal. I have lost the freedom to do my own thing, to abandon Fred for awhile and be carefree. I am sometimes resentful and angry, sometime guilty and inadequate.
Alzheimer’s disease has stolen my husband. It has stolen my life as well.