The wheelchair is in the usual place beside the window. The view is the same. It is that very narrow slice of the world comprised of the patio, the gardens, over the street to the restaurant, a parking lot and backyards. The passing vehicular traffic provides the only change in scenery.
Walking up to the wheelchair I see my Bert, head upright with eyes closed but not asleep.
“Good morning my darling. How’s my Bert today?” The eyes open slowly. I smile and a tentative smile is returned. I whisper “I love you” close to his ear and he nods his head.
My Bert no longer utters even one word. He no longer speaks. The man who would laugh when I told him that one formula for our happy marriage was that he talked and I listened is now muted.
I begin to describe the scene in front of him as with advancing macular degeneration I am not sure that he sees even that narrow world with any clarity. He reaches for my hand and then we play the usual game. As I try to take my hand away he tightens his grip. He smiles when I cannot get loose but this game is no longer usual. There was a time not long ago when I had difficulty loosening his grip. Now I am half pretending. I still my hand and he hangs on now rubbing my thumb up and down, up and down.
He has said nothing. He is permanently muted.
The birthday balloons are still hanging by the window. They hover half-heartedly. I had wanted to discard those two weeks before but when I told him I would put them in the garbage my Bert shook his head.
Today as I look at them and see the slow seeping out of the gas, look at their wrinkling softness and see them drooping towards the ground, I see them as a metaphor for my Bert. He too is losing his gas, his vitality; he too is wrinkling, shrinking and losing weight. He too is losing strength and settling into an unhealthy softness.
I am seeing Alzheimer’s Bert today. The disease is taking my Bert. He does not walk, he does not talk and he lethargically succumbs to having everything done for him and to him. He understands when asked to open his mouth for the next drink or spoonful of food. He nods, he shakes his head he clamps his teeth when he does not want to eat. He is not eating well anymore so he gets meal replacement supplements. He drinks better than he eats. I am grateful for that.
I find that living in ‘smalls’ is becoming more important as the ‘smalls’ are getting smaller. Just six weeks ago the small joy was the brightening smile and the shout “That’s my wife. That’s my Paula” as I entered the room. Now it is that tentative smile and the holding of hands.
I am getting used to Alzheimer’s muted Bert. I am getting used to Alzheimer’s Bert who can hardly keep his eyes open and the Alzheimer’s Bert that is the epitome of weariness.
I sing to my Bert and show my love the best I can. I overreact at the smile, the nods, the eyes that open one at a time or together. I praise a clean plate and emptied glass. I compliment his attire, his hair, his clean shaven face, his smile.
And I grieve.
My Bert is fading.
The Meander: I am beginning to wonder when enough is enough. The heart and the mind are in a constant battle.
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