Bedtime in Dementiaville

Romeo goes to bed quite early. I phoned him (that is, I called the nursing station and asked someone to go into his room and call me back from his phone so we could talk) one recent evening at 6:45 p.m. He was already in bed and falling asleep for the night, agitated that I had called so late. I apologized and told him I'd see him tomorrow.

I planned my visit the next evening at 7:00 o'clock, aware that his new early bedtime may be evidence of the increasing march of dementia.

Romeo was tucked neatly in bed, wearing flannel pajamas and a woolen cap. I've always loved it that he always wears a hat to bed in the autumn and winter. Something old-fashioned and Victorian in it. You know, like in Clement C. Moore's poem The Night Before Christmas: "And Ma in her kerchief and I in my cap had just settled down for a long winter's nap." One of my favorite poems. I love that Romeo wears a cap to bed.

This evening, Romeo was peaceful, quiet, content. I sat in a chair at the side of his bed. I held his hand. I moved my other hand to cover his heart and left it there, feeling each beat, each of his precious beats, grateful that we had met. Recalling that four months before we met, he nearly died while recovering from open heart surgery. Again grateful for the gift of his life, grateful for knowing him, for loving him. Heart beat, heart beat. I felt his heart beat. Such a sweet soul he is.

With my left hand still on Romeo's heart, I took his left hand and placed it on my heart, held it there. I don't think he noticed. He was nearly asleep. I continued to feel his heart beat, willed him to feel mine. Maybe he did. After a minute or two, he breathed the breath of deep sleep, me still holding his hand on my heart and still feeling his. Peaceful, quiet, content. Aware of the lightness of life, the transparency of reality, the net of love that's gently wrapped around our beings, supporting us as we are hurtled through this universe.

I gently remove my hand from Romeo's heart and place his hand that was on my heart to his side under the blankets. He's still asleep, deeply asleep. I smile, reach to the sky, grab the passing clouds from the night sky, and pull them over him. A blanket of clouds. Not the cloudiness of dementia, but the dissolving clouds that symbolize the sacrifices of the sage, my Romeo, who renounces his mortal being to gain eternity. My Romeo. Good night, sweet love.