“Stasis (from Greek στάσις “a standing still”) may refer to: A state of stability, in which all forces are equal and opposing, therefore they cancel out each other. Stasis (political history), as defined by Thucydides as a set of symptoms indicating an internal disturbance in both individuals and states.” From Wikipedia

Well Ralph and I definitely fit the definition, which I looked up after one of those small moments that clarify the big picture

While face-timing with me this morning, BabyRalph threw a little tantrum when my daughter wouldn’t let him hold the phone. As he kicked his legs, my daughter laughed, “He is becoming a toddler.” My emotional reaction was “Oh no, I want him to stay an adorable baby forever.” But of course, I also want him to grow up and am excited by every developmental step he takes. Just now, I had the odd and uncomfortable realization that my wishes for Ralph follow parallel lines, only maybe in reverse.

Ralph has maintained his cognitive abilities on about the same level for long while now, around five years. This plateau has been an incredibly lucky break for us. When I read and talk to other caregivers whose loved ones were diagnosed and then nosedived quickly, I marvel at Ralph and my good fortune.

We still live a mostly normal life, at least on the surface. If anything, Ralph’s routine has hardened and within its walls he functions very well. I keep his pillbox filled, his clothes clean, and his meals prepared just as if I were any wife (well any wife in the 1950s, although my housecleaning and disposition fail the Leave It to Beaver test). He spends most of his day in his “office,” even if all he does in the “office” is listen to the radio and talk to his dogs. So I have plenty of free time to carry on my life. We eat dinner together watching Jeopardy and then he goes to bed.

This is not a hard life. Yes there is the underlying stress of his shot memory and his general cognitive decline, the loss of his curiosity and engagement with the world beyond our mailbox. But really, life could be so much harder. Living with Ralph is now like living with a child who is not going to grow up. Whose developmental steps if he takes any will be backward, toward a kind of funhouse version of babyhood.

As much as I want BabyRalph to stay my snuggly grandbaby, it is fun to imagine him big enough to pull that rake in the picture above. I cannot and don’t want to imagine Ralph’s future. And yet I also have to admit an ugly truth. I imagine what my life will be like when Ralph’s cognitive abilities deteriorate with horror but also sometimes with a kind of relief. The urge to get out of the stasis–which in the case of Alzheimer’s includes both standing still and inner disturbance–is real, even when I know the escape will be to a much darker, harder place.