A Promise Broken Because of The Effects of Dementia

Earlier in the year, before dementia got the best of Romeo, we decided that this is the year we would see Paul McCartney in concert. I promised Romeo that we would go -- no matter what. At the time, little did I know that "no matter what" was to become unthinkable, utterly un-do-able.

When I heard that Paul would be in Denver on July 17, I went online immediately and bought two tickets, knowing that Romeo could not come. But before that, I struggled -- do I get tickets, do I go to see Paul without Romeo? And what would Romeo say when I told him, how would he feel? Do I not go at all?

Perhaps another woman would not have gone. I chose to go. After all, it's PAUL McCARTNEY. I've waited 46 years for this, and Paul isn't getting any younger either. So of course I was going to go. It was an easy decision, but it wasn't so easy to reconcile, to make peace with the fact that Romeo couldn't come, that I had to break a promise I'd made to him, that we couldn't be together for the concert.

Why couldn't Romeo come? What exactly is it about this concert, or any such event, that Romeo wouldn't enjoy? The answer, simply, is: all of it. Every piece, every detail, about getting him there, to being there, and getting him back afterward, would have been a major production.

Perhaps the easiest details to arrange, but the most costly, would have been transportation. It is impossible to get Romeo into a car (or SUV, in our case). We would have had to hire a van equipped to transport an individual in a wheelchair. The van would have to have the proper belts, straps, and fasteners to secure Romeo sitting in his wheelchair. The cost would have been beyond my budget.

Next in the easy detail department: we would have had to purchase handicapped seating for the concert. Easy enough, except they were sold out when I checked.

Finally, the main reason why I thought it best that Romeo not accompany me to the concert is perhaps the most hidden to those who have never been caregivers, never been around someone with dementia. Simply, it is that Romeo (and many people with dementia) would not have been able to tolerate the noise. It was going to be loud. Noise is bothersome to him, where it never used to be. He often doesn't want to listen to classical music -- his favorite, or what was his favorite. At Paul's concert, even with everyone in the stadium singing along with him, we could still hear Paul loud and clear. It was high energy, high noise, the entire three hours. Romeo would not have made it through 30 minutes of it, let alone 10 minutes.

For the past two years or so, Romeo hasn't done well attending events. He usually doesn't make it through any movies we go to (we stopped going). Last summer, we had to leave during the intermission of a performance of Shakespeare's The Two Gentlemen of Verona. This past spring, Romeo could hardly tolerate something as low-key as sipping tea in a coffee shop with conversation and overhead classical music for 40 minutes. No, as much as he would have wanted, he could not have made it through Paul McCartney's concert. I was satisfied with that decision.

But after the relatively easy decision, I did not anticipate what came up next. Huge sadness and near-bottomless grief. It weighed me down for days. Romeo couldn't come to the concert with me. I cried, I fretted, I felt guilty, I cried some more. And then it was gone. It had passed, and I was okay.

Earlier this year, in the spring, when the weather was nice, I took walks alone in places where Romeo and I would always walk together. It felt odd to be there without him, but I never cried or worried or felt guilty. This walk, I knew, would be just one of many without him. It foreshadowed other routines and other occasions and events that I would be doing or attending without Romeo. But this Paul McCartney concert...it involved me breaking a promise to Romeo. Something I'd never done before. And hoped I would never have to do again.

So what did Romeo think of all this? What were Romeo's feelings toward not being able to see Paul McCartney? For all the crying and fretting and worrying and guilt that I felt, it was a non-event for Romeo. It didn't register on his emotional scale whatsoever. He had forgotten we had talked about going to see Paul this year. He had forgotten my promise that we would see him this year, no matter what. And the day after the concert, he had forgotten that I had gone to it until I reminded him. I talked about it a little, and Romeo listened intently, smiling. He was happy that I had enjoyed myself. And after a minute or two, he asked me if there was any more chocolate in his room. Ahhh, how he makes me smile.

These songs are for my love, my amazing Romeo: