Behavior Changes and Dementia

Romeo is upset with me. I know it's his dementia speaking. He would never have said the things he did, would never have acted like this, before dementia. He is upset that I'm not with him all day, every day. I can't be. Life pulls me in a number of directions, like it does with most of us. He doesn't get it, doesn't understand.

Right now, Romeo won't let me touch him, won't let me hold his hand. I tell him that the main purpose in our marriage, the reason we are together, the main reason we've been together all along, is because of our mutual commitment to the cultivation of our hearts, to spiritual awakening. He agrees. He is warming up to me.

I take his hand, and this time he doesn't pull it away. I tell him that I'll be with him always, that I am completely dedicated to him, that I am steady and unwavering in my commitment to him. Romeo needs this kind of reassurance from me regularly, and I give it often and freely, sincerely, urgently. He understands better when I stress the urgency of it. It seems to wake him up, to bring his attention back to the room, to make him think. He knows. He understands now.

I also know that he'll probably forget we ever had this conversation. He'll bring it up again -- his complaints about me not being there enough -- and we'll act the entire scene over again using much the same words. Again I'll tell him how much I love him, how important he is to me, how nothing will drive me away when he is expressing intense emotions. I tell him how I will stay with him -- in his face, breathing and present, giving him love in whatever way works to reach his heart.

He nods, he knows. His life is what it is right now. It can be nothing else. My life is different than his. It, too, can be nothing else. He nods, he knows.

It's late. He's tucked into bed, nice and comfy. I move my chair closer to his bed and in a soft, low voice, I sing to him: