Big Blue Eyes in Dementiaville

It's late afternoon. Romeo and I chit-chat. We are in his room. He is sitting up in bed, and I am in a chair borrowed from the ice cream parlor in the building (there is a shortage of chairs for visitors).

We sip on our usual drinks -- steamed soy milk with sugar-free hazelnut flavoring, light foam. Romeo asks for a cookie. I open the drawer in his nightstand that contains his goodie stash and choose two European-style biscuits covered with dark chocolate. I feed him a bite of cookie, then a drink of the soy milk. He can no longer feed himself or lift a drink to his mouth, so I do this for him. He happily munches the cookie and drinks the soy milk through a straw.

We talk about the weather, the food in the nursing home, his cold symptoms (a new development), what's going on with the people we know, the routines of everyday life. This time, it's a pleasant visit. He doesn't complain about situations that his dementia has imagined, twisted, or embellished. There are no stories for me to check on with his nurse or other staff members. He doesn't cry, he is not frustrated or agitated. He is relaxed, content, peaceful. This, in turn, makes me relaxed, content, peaceful. He is fine. And because he is fine, I am fine.

When Romeo finishes his cookies and soy milk, he asks to lie down. I clear his bed tray, move it back to its place against the wall, and go through the routine of adjusting his bed so he is lying down. I lean over and give him a kiss. I back away from him and say good-bye. He smiles and says, "I love you." I reply in kind, and we kiss again. I turn and head out of the room. Nearly to the door, I turn around and see him -- his eyes, bluer and larger than ever -- looking at me with such love and innocence and trust. I sigh, drinking in his essence -- this strong, unconditional love he offers to me freely -- and wonder if he can feel me giving the same to him.

Behind Blue Eyes, or Divine Dementia

The following essay is about an "aha" moment I had in November 2008 while taking care of Romeo. It appeared in the July/August 2009 issue of Viha Connection: The World of Osho and has been edited for this blog.

At the left is an interpretation of what I saw "Behind Blue Eyes." Painting by me.

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Romeo is a sweet, sweet man. He is the kindest, gentlest, most loving person I have ever known. I would say that about him even if he weren't my husband. But there's something else you need to know about Romeo: he has dementia. Over the past three years we have witnessed a significant, progressive decline in Romeo's cognitive functions. It affects his thought processes, reasoning, memory, attention, language, and problem-solving capabilities, as well as his balance and motor skills. He requires frequent help and some supervision.

I could easily spend the entire day and evening helping Romeo, and I often have. While I am happy to be my husband's memory, his cook, waitress, driver, laundress, administrative assistant, psychologist, manicurist, IT specialist, physical therapist, nurse, social director, and pack mule, being his everything is not good for either of us. I simply cannot take care of all our needs, the both of us, and -- worse -- I can't seem to stop trying. My frustration level at times is over the top, and breakdowns happen too frequently for my comfort level.

One day Romeo's nearly constant requests for non-urgent help were getting to me. At his latest request, I paused, took a cleansing breath, and calmly looked into his eyes. Then it happened. I saw something I had never seen there before. In a nanosecond I took in his cinnamon-colored beard and hair, his reddish nose and cheeks, his blue eyes, but it wasn't Romeo looking back at me. Not at all.

What was looking back at me was the Divine, the indescribable Divine, saying hello and showing me that it -- that the DIVINE ITSELF -- is Romeo, that Romeo is the DIVINE ITSELF. Every cell in my body vibrated, jumped up and down in celebration of the yes-ness of it. Every molecule shouted excitedly, "Romeo is the Divine! Romeo is the Divine!" Yes, it is true that each one of us, everyone and everything in the world, is also that same Divine presence itself. I knew it. I experienced it. Without a doubt, it is true. Exhausted, I sat down and cried from the impact, and the totality, and the aha-ness of the moment.

Every day since then, I see, experience, and know in each of my cells that every request from Romeo -- every small or time-consuming request, every large request, every request he merely thinks -- is really a request from the Divine. Everything he asks is coming from the Divine. The Divine is asking me for help, and I am humbled and honored.

Later I realized that on a deep cellular level what I experienced was the Zen spirit that spiritual teacher Osho talked about in Zen: the path of paradox, Volume 1, Chapter 1. He said the Zen spirit:

transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary. It transforms the profane into the sacred. It drops the division between the world and the divine.

Indeed it does.

The Divine, the Ultimate, the Universe, God, Existence, revealed itself to me through Romeo that morning. And although there are still challenges in our daily lives, I am lighter in the knowing, in having experienced Romeo as the Divine. That revelation and its afterglow remain vivid, and every day I marvel at and am wildly grateful for this gift. Romeo is truly a sweet, sweet man. He is the kindest, gentlest, most loving person I have ever known, and divinely so.