A sense of security and comfort.

On hindsight, I’m inclined to think that 13 years of Alzheimer’s for Jeanne wasn’t as bad as I once imagined. In that in the early stages, Jeanne really didn’t believe she had Alzheimer’s. And I probably fed that belief to some extent. So maybe we both lived an illusion for a while. And I suspect Jeanne always lived that illusion. Right to the end. Eventually, the dementia robbed Jeanne of the cognitive ability to even comprehend that she had Alzheimer’s. Maybe that was good. A blessing, actually. I think Jeanne was quite happy in the last 38 months of her life. The time she spent in a nursing home. Jeanne wasn’t really cognizant that it was a nursing home per se. She thought of it as home. The place she lived with me. Because I was with her 8 to 10 hours daily. Didn’t miss a single day in all that time. And I took her out and about on a daily basis. For extensive outings in the wheelchair. And I even often wheeled her home (six miles round trip) during periods of good weather. Yes, Jeanne had ample activity. And I gave Jeanne a shower and a body massage every night. And I tucked her into bed. And then I went home. And I showed up at the nursing home an hour or two after Jeanne got up and had her breakfast in the morning. And I’d hand-feed Jeanne her lunch and supper. In her room. So this became normal life for Jeanne. A comfortable life, really. Virtually stress-free. Because I was there to comfort Jeanne. To immerse her in good vibes. To make her feel loved. I don’t think Jeanne knew she was dying. Until maybe the final day or two. And even then, I doubt that she had a full grasp of the significance of death.

Anyway, I often tell care-givers this to try to ease their minds about their loved ones. The patients probably reach the point where they are unaware of their steadily deteriorating dementia condition. They can't grasp it all. And maybe just as well. But they can still savor some enjoyment from life. Little things. The taste of food. Something they like. Maybe ice cream. A body massage. Soothing words from their care-givers. Exercise. Fresh air. Sunshine. The presence of a loved one. Even if unrecognized. Maybe all this conveys an instinctive sense of security...and comfort. --Jim Broede