Asking for Money in Dementiaville

Planned Parenthood, Foundation for International Community Assistance, Greater Yellowstone Coalition, Wildlife Conservation Society, The Trust for Public Land, Save Tibet, Doctors Without Borders, etc., etc., etc.

These are some of the organizations that Romeo gave money to when he was able to care for his own finances. There are about 40 other organizations that Romeo contributed to.

Throughout our time together, he trimmed the list down to only one organization. I won't say which. Just suffice it to say that all of the other organizations still send him requests for money. Every day I receive a stack of mail consisting almost entirely of requests from these various groups. Every day I go through the unusually large stack of mail that's delivered, every day resenting the fact that I must do this. Most days, there is only one or two pieces of mail for me (mostly bills) -- some days, not one envelope is for me.

Lately, however, I've noticed that this stack, the daily stack of mail that comes every day, which used to be about two inches high, has now dwindled to perhaps half an inch tall. That's good for the trees, the environment. It's good for me, too. I do tire of this daily reminder of Romeo's changed condition. Sometimes it's painful, the daily visions that come forth of Romeo and the joyful time he spent every day going through this stack and dutifully writing checks to each of these organizations. How he looked forward to the mail every day, and how he enjoyed donating his money to them. At other times, these memories bring a smile to me. Recently, though, they only make me yearn for the old days when Romeo was able to function normally, for the old days before dementia had a strong hold on him, for the old days when he lived here with me.

Part of me looks forward to the day when the daily mail brings no mail to him at all. When all the envelopes are addressed only to me. When the requests that come to Romeo from charities and humanitarian and environmental organizations no longer come in the mail. When they stop coming all together. And then there's the part of me that dreads the day.