The Caregiver's Strategy - The Second Part

Without humor in my tool belt, a new strategy to lift Romeo's moods has come forward. It's love. Rather, it's finding a crack in his frame of mind to insert love. It's searching for an opening where I can hold his hand, get his attention so he'll look at me, and talk about love and who he really is, what our relationship really is.

The crack where I can enter his space, his mind, is a barely perceptible instant when he lets go of his pain and sorrow. These cracks are rare, and when I find one, I must act immediately. I must slip him into his body, into his present, and love him and tell him about himself, about us. This, then, connects him to the truth and quiets and soothes him.

I spot a crack. "Romeo," I say, "I love you with my whole being." He doesn't look at me. He often doesn't look at me. "Romeo, would you please look at me?"

"I can't."

Me, gently: "Why not? Can you tell me why not?"

He begins to weep softly. "Because...because...it hurts me and I cry."

"Why does it hurt you, my love, why do you cry?"

"Because I love you so much and we've only been married a short time. We've had so little time together."

It's true. We met five years ago, in the afternoon of August 27, 2005. He asked me to marry him the next evening. And I thought to myself, "What took you so long?" Our bond is strong. To me, it feels like we've always been together -- for 5,000 years, not this mere five years of physical time.

"Oh, yes, I see, Romeo. I'm not sure if I believe in reincarnation; even so, do you know how much we have been together in past lives? A lot. They're probably trying to get us to stay away from each other more, to experience being with others throughout our lifetimes."

I have his attention, and he locks his gaze with mine, his blue eyes looking through mine, searching deeply, wanting more.

"Romeo, you are so much more."

He's lapping it up, poised to hear what else I'll say.

"Yes, you have dementia. Yes, you are confined to living in a nursing home."

The crack is still open.

"And most of you is living elsewhere."

He has a bolt of realization. The truth is here.

I nod and tell him, "Yes, yes! Most of your being, your soul, your essence, doesn't live here. It never did. Even before you had dementia, only a tiny part of your awareness was focused here."

He is still holding my gaze. I go on because there is more.

"In fact, you aren't even you. Do you know who you are, who any of us really are?"

Yes, he knows, he nods.

"You, me, all of us. We are It. We are the One. We are the Universe. We are everyone and everything. We are love."

He reaches out, wanting me to come nearer, to hug me. This is a convoluted affair, trying to embrace, with Romeo in his wheelchair.

"Can you think of that -- who you really are -- sometimes?"

"Sometimes, yes" he says, tears dripping from his eyes. These are not tears of sadness, but tears of realization, of hope, joy, comfort, peace.

"Good. Try to go with it when you can remember. When you remember, think of yourself, think of how your consciousness is free and unemcumbered by your physical body. You don't really need it during times like these. You don't need to feel separated from me, because we aren't...not really."

"Yes, I know this," he says with the conviction of one who truly knows.

I smile and ask if I can read to him. With his consent, I read one of Drew Dellinger's poems, Hymn to the Sacred Body of the Universe. Afterwards, Romeo rests in contentment, peace, bliss. Afterwards, I am exhausted and drained.

Here is Drew: