Paul shuffled to the bathroom and stood by the sink for long minutes, spellbound by the running water. Then, carefully, he squeezed a long ribbon of toothpaste on his black comb.
“Honey, that isn’t your toothbrush!”
“Well, you’re wrong,” he snapped back.
Paul lifted the comb to his mouth. Then he looked at it again. Without a word he held the comb under the faucet.
“You make me nervous!” He spat out the words along with the toothpaste.
I knew I did. I watched him like a mother hovering over a sick child. Small wonder that he felt smothered. But each time he wandered out of sight , my fears multiplied. He pushed wrong numbers on the elevator, forgot where he parked, and couldn’t remember his own telephone number.
Tag ends of torment snowballed in my mind gathering stress as I careened through this new challenge. What was happening? My heart was frozen with terror. We decided to see our doctor.
•••••••••
The neurologist spoke gently as he shared his evaluation. But, how could anyone be gentle and say the real you was dying?
“A progressive senile dementia often accompanies Parkinson’s disease.”
Paul had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s two years ago, and while that news alone was a time bomb, dementia was a black hole. I felt myself being sucked into a whirlpool of panic. God, where are You?
The doctor handed me a book.
“Alzheimer’s disease appears to be the most frequent cause of irreversible dementia in adults. The intellectual impairment progresses gradually from forgetfulness to total disability. The cause….is not known, and at present physicians know of no way to stop or cure it.”
“I can’t write. And my eyes jump when I read. Do I need new glasses?” Paul’s voice was soft and undemanding. Not waiting for answers, he just kept talking, filling in all the empty spots….talking, talking.
“Aren’t there any medicines that can help?”
My heart nose-dived at the doctor’s next words.
“There is no known cure.”
As we left the office, Paul grabbed my hand sadly.
“I’m so sorry for my life.”
We just stood there, his arm around me and my head on his shoulder. There was nothing left to say.
Bedtime was an oasis. I tried to pray, but all I could hear was the plaintive cry from the stereo, “ I don’t want to walk without you, baby.” The words stung like antiseptic on a gaping wound..
God, please God, can You hear me? You are breaking my heart. You are letting my husband crumble piece by piece, right before my eyes. First Parkinson’s disease and Alzheimer’s ….What on earth are you doing? Please God, please don’t let it happen. Paul is my love, my best friend. How can I walk on this earth without him?
And how can there be joy, laughter, or happiness in my life again? It was all coming to a screeching halt.
I knew we would face all the indignities of the flesh that this disease extracts. a pound for a pound, helpless in the crush of a dementia that evolves slowly but relentlessly.
The next morning I woke up crying. Paul snored as I tiptoed into the kitchen to grab a mug of steaming coffee and my Bible.
In the quiet of a home stilled with sleep, I began reading in I Thessalonians 5:16 and 18. “ In everything, give thanks…..rejoice always.” I slammed down the Bible, a wave of hot anger engulfing me as I stalked out of the room.
He was a difficult God to worship. I could not understand Him. He seemed to demand joy in the midst of trials and troubles. There just was no way I could possible please Him.
Still muttering to myself, I peeked into our bedroom.
Paul’s eyes flew open. They were twin pools of terror.
“Miggy, my leg, it won’t move!”
I bent over him.
“Does it pain you? Is it numb? Should I call the doctor?” I pulled the blankets back.
“Just help me move my leg. Grab hold of it. Do something! Don’t just stand there1”
Gently lifting the disobedient limb, I helped him sit at the edge of the bed. He clung to me, as I wrapped my arms tightly around him.
“What’s happening to me, Miggy?”
I wanted to reply, You are starting down the other side of a strange mountain and I am just as frightened as you are. But my words hung back.
Like a slow rerun of our life, I re-lived the valleys that Paul and I had walked through, feeling the pain reel by reel, frame by agonizing frame. That awful Monday morning when God called our six-month old baby, Martha, home, Paul led me into our bedroom and knelt with me. We both wept for our tiny daughter until there were no more tears.
Then that September morning, two years later, Melissa Jane, our sixth chip was diagnosed with down’s syndrome. Paul, again, was the one by my side soothing me in his comforting arms, gently pushing the hair from my face, tenderly wiping my eyes with his big white hankie.
******
The days that followed crowded together to make weeks, and the weeks squeezed their discouraging days into dead-en months. Days, weeks, and months of confusion and disbelief. Then one year passed, a yo-yo experience at best, never knowing what to expect next. Paul’s descent was alarmingly fast. His comprehension faded, his coordination vanished. I was terrified.
And then….one Saturday morning, when the two of us were all alone, Paul fell in the bathroom. No bones were broken, but he could no longer stand or walk. His life took another downwards turn. It became a wheelchair-to-bed existence.
His speech went from bad to worse….a jigsaw puzzle of memory pieces trying to fit into some semblance of reality. God was allowing this man’s mind to be taken from him, leaving only his outside shell to remind me of the man I knew and loved. “For better, for worse, in sickness and health..had it been fifty-two years?”
*********
One morning, as I turned the calendar page, I saw that it was March the 13th. Paul’s seventy-fifth birthday. Bitterly, I wondered what was left to celebrate.
A visit from our son and his wife with a cheery basket of flowers made the morning seem brighter.. Another ding-dong at the front door announce some friends with a Happy Birthday cake, candles, and every party plates. Paul seemed to come alive.
“What all the fuss about?” He whispered to me.
Again, a knock brought a big cluster of Birthday balloons, shiny mylar ones standing out midst a rainbow-colored assortment. An apple and orange anchored them in a small net bag. I placed the balloons in front of Paul as he sat in his wheelchair. As he reached to get closer to these magical floating objects, I could sense his fascination.
Paul sat spellbound when he saw his face in one of the big silver balloons. He held it in both hands. Turning it this way and that, he looked at his reflection. then, he opened his mouth and made a funny face, and his mirrored image mimicked him. He laughed aloud and we all laughed with him.
When we sang Happy Birthday, he joined in off-key with a hearty “Happy Birthday, dear Jesus!” We all laughed again. He downed two pieces of cake,holding on to the balloons with a tight fist. This was turning out to be a Happy Birthday after all.
This was his world, his joke, and we laughed together as we used to do. He reached for my hand and would not let me go. It was as though God had reached down and grabbed my hands to say, “My precious child, I will not let you go.”
There would still be times of happiness ahead, times of laughter and a time for love. “Rejoice? In everything?” Was that what God had said? Big tears ran down my cheeks and splashed on the wheelchair.
I felt a surge of unparalleled happiness sweep over me. Joy was a gift, straight form God, joy in anything …..joy in everything! Even this. I separated the balloons and kissed Paul’s face all over, his eyes, his nose, his forehead, and finally his great big smile.
He glanced up at me, traces of icing on his cheeks and the last half of a fine on his mouth.
Looking around, I saw the same room, same people, same heartbreak. Nothing had changed. Except me! Kneeling down by his wheelchair, I hugged him to me, my cheek next to his.
I saw our faces, side by side, in the shiny mylar balloon. He smiled at the balloon. I smiled, too. Then he stuck his tongue out, and we laughed together.
Then, very slowly, Paul pulled the balloon toward his mouth and planted a big wet kiss….on my face….in the balloon!
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