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?