Rest in Peace, My Sweet Romeo

Romeo, my beloved husband

November 23, 1944
to
July 26, 2011

I'm honored and humbled
to have spent the last six years with you.
You changed me completely.

Rest in peace, my sweet man.
We'll meet on the other side.

All That's Left in Dementiaville

It's late afternoon as I enter Romeo's room. He's lying in bed, as usual, eyes closed, breathing the gentle breath of sleep.

I touch his hand, his arm.

"Hello, Romeo. It's me, your wife, Juliet."

His eyes remain closed, but they flutter and a smile illuminates his face.

"Oh," he whispers, "Juliet."

"Yes, sweetheart, I'm here."

After a long moment he utters one word, "kiss," and puckers his lips. I move closer and meet him at the confluence of physicality and spirituality.

"Again?" He smiles, and I gladly indulge the two of us again.

Romeo settles into a peaceful doze, and I hold his hand and sit back to watch him in sleep and to wonder. When Romeo's suffering (his anger and frustration at not being able to function as he did in the past, before he had dementia) fades into the background, and when his mind lets go and he experiences himself only as a content and happy living being, when who he really is looks out of his eyes even as they are closed and communicates affection, what is that?

When Romeo's physical discomfort is not present, when his mental landscape is clear and devoid of disturbing images, when he is not comparing or judging the situation he is in, when it appears that he is simply enjoying the unfolding of life, what is that? When all the unpleasantness is stripped away, what's left?

I have my own ideas about what life really is, but what are your ideas? Caregivers, perhaps more than many other people, are in a position to see life both devoid of everything and full of nothing. And when life is at this unusual balance, when the fulcrum of life is not what we expect, when it is inherently not visible, what is that? Is it acceptance? Is it patience? Is it simply being? Is it grace? Is it love? When life is stripped of everything, what's left? A kiss from divine grace?

Contented in Dementiaville

As Romeo progresses deeper into dementia, he becomes agitated, confused, foggier. He is lost. He is not here, and he is not at peace. My main caregiving responsibility, my goal for Romeo, is to see that he is comfortable, content, at peace. If any one of these is absent from his experience, I feel it perhaps as much as he does, although I'm sure separate scales exist for the two of us.

On this visit, I greet him as usual. I touch his arm, softly kiss his cheek near his ear and whisper, "Romeo, it's me." Usually he opens his eyes, tries to get me in his radar. If he does, if he can see me and focus on me, his eyes and face light up with recognition and love, no matter whether his mental landscape is clear or foggy. On this visit, he is clearer than he's been in several months, and I melt into his gaze.

It's so much easier to be in acceptance when Romeo is "present." When Romeo is clear, it's so much easier to let go of the fact that he has dementia. It's so much easier to let it be when he is at peace. When Romeo is glowing with love, it's so much easier to be with his dementia. It's so much easier to focus on our separate journeys instead of our clearly separate destinations.

What unfolds now for Romeo is something I can only imagine. He's making this journey alone. Although I am there physically for him, I have no idea what he's experiencing mentally, emotionally. He can't describe it to me because his disease blocks his words. His mind doesn't bring them into focus long enough for him to verbalize his experience, and so I cannot be there for him on that level.

Romeo is completely alone, exploring unknown territory by himself. At least, that's what's happening as far as we know. But there is much we don't know. Romeo has one foot in this world and one foot in the other world. That other world -- is that his destination? Is that where he's headed? Is that where each of us is headed?

I've come to learn that letting go of my resistance to Romeo's dementia has allowed me to experience him and our relationship more completely. I've come to learn that by being patient, I can be more aware of the unfolding of the events occurring with Romeo's progression into dementia and to perhaps see them from a more encompassing vantage point, which enriches the experience. I've learned that being with Romeo's dementia helps to balance my tendency to worry about him, which in turn clears my mind to be able to see more options or possibilities or solutions. Allowing my mind to step aside reveals to me the gift of being with Romeo, as well as the honor I have of helping him through his experience of dementia. And that is huge.

Romeo has been sleeping, breathing the breath of contented sleep, for 20 minutes. He'll be napping for quite some time yet. I get up, move my chair away from his bedside, touch his arm, softly kiss his cheek near his ear and whisper, "Good-bye, Romeo. I'll be back soon. Remember, though, that I am always with you." He continues breathing his contented breath of sleep. I turn and leave the room, breathing my contented breath of life.