Gratitude in Dementiaville

"Romeo?"

"Yes, Dear."

We're settled in the vacant conference room down the hall from Romeo's room. It's a typical conference room containing a long conference table, nicely padded burgundy chairs, a credenza, and a bank of windows that look south. We close the door. It's quiet in here. This is our "private" room where we come often to escape the buzz and activity of the nursing home, where we come to be alone.

"I want to tell you something, and I'm not sure if I've ever said this to you before."

Romeo's eyes become wide. He blinks, nods, reaches for my hand, encourages me.

"I'm not sure why I've never said this to you before. I think it all the time."

These days more than ever, I want Romeo to know everything I'm thinking about our marriage, about the life we had together, about the life we have now, about what he's meant to me, what he continues to mean to me, how he's helped me through my life, and how he's changed it. From the moment we met at the end of August 2005, Romeo and I have walked the rocky path of relationship with a tight grip on each other, both physically and metaphysically. Now, as we navigate our days with his dementia progressing, I want to spill the contents of my mind before him. It's my offering, my way of connecting with him, my worshiping of him.

As I sit before Romeo, his gaze focused on me in anxious anticipation and attention, I try to think of how to express what I feel. Emotions run through my brain. I see the energy of thoughts running before me, a seemingly endless movie reel of colored lights speeding across my mental landscape. I reach out for them, grab them, take them into my thoughts, but I am unable to translate them into words I can share with Romeo.

I am aware that Romeo waits for me to continue speaking. He has waited patiently these past few minutes as I search for what can't be searched for. And I finally find a way to tell him what I've felt for the years we've been together, for what we've been through together, for what we are yet to go through together, for what he means to me, for what he has meant to me, for what he will always mean to me.

"Romeo?"

His attention, his complete and total attention and presence -- this sweet, beautiful man who loves me unconditionally and whom I love unconditionally -- squeezes my hand with the strength of all the love he holds within himself.

I smile, receive his love, and say the only two words that come to mind...for in that moment, everything I feel for him has been reduced to...well...this:

"Thank you."

Thank you! Thank you? Is that all I can say to this wonderful man for what he's given me?

Ah, but he knows there's so much to that expression of gratitude. He's crying. And that makes me cry. So we sit there, in our private conference room, crying. And after we stop, he asks me to take him back to his room. We call for an aide to transfer him from his wheelchair to his bed. And then he drifts into blissful sleep, contented.