The "Year Ago" Game, or the Changes Wrought By Dementia

Five years ago, Romeo and I hadn't met. He was recovering from open heart surgery. I was in the process of deciding to dump my then-boyfriend. I took to sitting in the chaise lounge on the veranda, Juliet dumping a suitor, watching the leaves rustle on the shade trees that nearly reached to my second story, looking out over the park, the open space, the golf course beyond, watching the clouds pass, the birds chasing after them.

Four years ago, Romeo and I had been married for six months. What a joke! Seemed more like 600 years -- in the sense that it felt as if we had always been together. That summer we took many walks and hikes. Our favorite places to walk were the Boulder Creek path and all over Rocky Mountain National Park. We could walk for hours, and we did, hand in hand.

Three years ago, Romeo had been officially diagnosed with dementia for about nine months. We walked still, up and down the Creek path, all over Rocky Mountain National Park, and many other places.

Two years ago, I had been laid off from my job for seven months. The lay-off was a gift. That summer Romeo and I walked, although Romeo's strength was declining. We didn't walk as far. So we ramped up the frequency of our second-most favorite activity: visiting bookstores and tea shops. Coffee shops, to be exact. Romeo is British, and you can't take the tea out of him. We spent anywhere from one to three hours at a tea shop, talking and reading. That year, I read 62 books. We don't know how many Romeo read because he didn't track them.

One year ago, Romeo was able to walk around the block once, twice on a "good" day. That year, last year, Romeo had trouble concentrating on what he was reading. We stayed at the tea shops for 40 minutes max because of it. We spent most evenings last summer at home sipping on herbal iced tea and sitting together in the glider on the veranda. We were Romeo and Juliet, on our private balcony, watching the leaves rustle on the shade trees that reached to our second story, looking out over the park, the open space, the golf course beyond, watching the clouds pass, the birds chasing after them.

So far this year -- right now -- the glider sits idle, empty. No one is sitting in it. Romeo has been living at the nursing home, away from our home, for nearly a month. He will never return to sit with me in the glider. He won't be present on our private Romeo and Juliet balcony. He won't be watching the leaves rustle on the shade trees that reach to our second story. He won't be looking out over the park, the open space, the golf course beyond. He won't be watching the clouds pass, the birds chasing after them.

Despite all that, our glider will still be there, even if Romeo isn't. And the chaise lounge? It will still be there, and maybe I'll take it up again. But the glider? Will I sit in our glider this summer? Maybe...maybe not. This, however, is certain: even if I do sit in that glider, our glider, it will always be empty. I miss my Romeo. I am Juliet, alone again, waiting for Romeo to appear on our balcony. Longing for Romeo to appear on our balcony.