Tag Archives: Alzheimer’s spouse impatience

The Pronouns of Living with an Alzheimer’s Spouse

HE I WE  I HE WE  WE I HE  HE WE I  HEWE  HE WE I  HE WE I  WE HE I  HE WE HE  

Ralph and I always were independent spirits. While he sent out a strong magnetic force, I fought to maintain my sense of self. I often lost, of course. Whether he was being charming or belligerent, his energy, could suck up all the air in a room; I’d find myself seething at my invisibility. So I fought playing second fiddle, and in many ways the struggle between us made me stronger as an individual. Just a few years before Ralph’s diagnosis, the two of us discovered a level mutual respect and appreciation. There was Ralph (him), there was Alice(me) and there was Ralph and Alice(us),which balanced the individuals Ralph and Alice and made us both surprisingly happy.

While it lasted, which wasn’t long. The pronouns say it all.

When I talk about Ralph now, I tend to say/write/think We have a doctor appointment or We have a problem remembering the day of the week or We don’t like to break our routine. It is unnerving when I catch myself and realize I’ve become like one of those people who refer to themselves in the third person. There is a blurring of of our identities and while I have a surface life away from Ralph, I’m less and less sure just who I am.

Of course, Ralph doesn’t worry about identity the same way at all. He has become more I-centered in his docile cognitive decline than he ever was in his aggressively self-centered prime. He has enough trouble keeping up with himself, holding on to an idea—I HAVE ART CLASS TODAY. DO I HAVE ART CLASS TODAY. I HAVE ART CLASS TODAY. I can almost see how hard his mind is working. He is not unlike loved ones I’ve watched struggling with major physical pain or a fatal illness. Ralph has no energy or capacity to worry about, or even be curious about others, especially me. His concentration on himself is a matter of survival, is beyond his power to change…

 

Intermission

because IT IS ART CLASS DAY and WE are out of green paint and Ralph has been asking and asking all morning but can’t go himself and doesn’t want to leave his chair so guess who must go to the store (or become too guilt-riddled)

 

…but I still resent the last 20 minutes each way plus 10 minutes buying and paying for his paint…Not only resent the time. Resent how I let myself be taken over by him. Resent the irony that Ralph is diminished and yet more center stage in my life than ever, that I carry so much of the weight and end up feeling invisible. That he defines my life.

 

That his life has become our life but not in the shared way I fantasized marriage would offer. That our pronouns do not tie us together in a bow but have become a tangle that leaves me both knotted and dangling.

T is for Tractor Trouble Part Two

tractor boy.jpgBear with me as I return, briefly, to tractor travails.

As you may or may not recall, Ralph recently became more than a little obsessed when our tractor had a small problem. For weeks he drove me crazy about whether or not the hose had been replaced despite repeated confirmations that it had. Finally I convinced Ralph the hose in question had been replaced and breathed the sigh of relief I shared here….Way too soon.

Last week a friend tried to mow the front fields for us and discovered new problems, problems Ralph did not asked to be fixed.

I wasn’t present when Ralph supposedly called Mr. B., the elderly gentleman whom he’s always called for emergency repairs in the past and whose grandson replaced the hose. Ralph told me that Mr. B. promised to have Grandson call back. No call came for several days. But then again, Ralph no longer remembered calling Mr. B. Instead he kept asking if I had called him. Frankly, I dreaded making yet another call to these people whom I had badgered repeatedly at Ralph’s behest over the already fixed hose.

When I finally made myself punch in the numbers, Grandson told me that his mobile mechanic stopped showing up for work three days ago, the tractor side of the business was in crisis and he could no longer do our work.

Maybe I should have given Ralph more credit for his cognitive abilities.

Fortunately, I had another tractor repairman up my sleeve, someone recommended a month ago by the tile guy I used in my new role as rental properties renovator, the role Ralph always handled authoritatively and now the role that has taught me to use my forlorn, slightly ditzy wife of an impaired husband to great advantage.

Sammy showed up an hour after I called—my tile guy had evidently told him all about our situation and he was ready to jump into the breach. And when Ralph learned Sammy already services several of our more persnickety farming neighbors, he decided to trust him.

That’s the good news.

The bad news is that while Ralph called on Mr. B. for emergency problems (like the hose) it turns out that he never ever had the tractor serviced properly. The engine won’t rev high enough; the blades need work; there are leaks and missing screws. Etc. Etc.

Sammy promises he’ll have the tractor back in three weeks (after who knows how many dollars). The grass and baby trees keep growing.

Meanwhile Ralph moved on to obsessing about a horse trailer our former tenant on the farm left behind when she moved. In the last two days Ralph has asked me repeatedly, i.e. ten calls over two hours while I has waiting to have his truck serviced, (another story) “What is happening to the trailer? Is someone coming today to pick it up?” I have explained many times that nothing is happening with the trailer.

I am beginning to wonder if there is something about things beginning with the letter T (tractor, trailer, his truck which I just took to be service) that catches Ralph’s attention.

But really what this tractor business has made me consider is a little more personally troubling. I probably would never have known that Ralph let the tractor slide for years, when he was cognitively healthy, if he did not have cognitive problems now. I think about all the things I have let slide, the mistakes we all make in our lives and are able to cover up—I write this looking around my incredibly messy office—and realize that Ralph’s become transparent in a way I hope I never become but may with time. Which of my secrets and failures and foolishness will my caregivers uncover?

Living with Ralph, watching his struggles not only with memory but also with her sense of identity and control over his life, makes me look into the mirror in uncomfortable ways I might otherwise avoid.