It is never easy to let go of our loved ones, even when they have been struggling for years with a debilitating condition; even if we say it was a “blessing”, it’s never easy to say goodbye.
Marilyn, my mother-in-law, was only seventy-five years old, but she had had Alzheimer’s for almost three years and was progressing very rapidly. I’ve been told that one in 10 people age 65 and older have Alzheimer’s dementia. That’s 10% of the population over 65.
My husband, Peter, would visit his mother at the nursing home every Sunday and often come home with some fun stories to share. We both knew they weren’t really funny… but sometimes we just couldn’t help but laugh.
Sometimes his mother would acknowledge him and other times she would just talk nonsense, but she was always nice to him. However, there were stories about her not being so nice to the nurses, so when Peter asked me to come with him, she was scared sometimes. I was afraid that she would yell at me and say something hurtful, but I knew it was time for me to visit her, so one day we took a walk to the nursing home. He hadn’t seen her in over a year, and to say that she was surprised would be an understatement. She was half the size she had been the last time he’d seen her, and she couldn’t walk anymore. The impact took my breath away and I had to leave the room to regain my composure. When I went back into the room, I walked past Marilyn’s roommate, Phyllis. “You’re a pretty girl,” she said with a smile, then went back to worrying about the clothes on her bed. I later learned that that was what she “did”.
Peter took his mother’s hand and spoke softly to her, and she looked at him and called him “dad.” It wasn’t until the nurse walked into the room that she saw me. She looked at me and then whispered to Peter, “How old is she?”
“Oh, she doesn’t like me to tell her her age, Mom. Let’s just say she’s a little older than me!” Peter said.
She seemed oddly wary of me, which was exactly what I feared, but then she seemed to pull away. Because of Alzheimer’s, I didn’t know her well, but I knew that she was a strong, resilient woman who had raised three wonderful children with kind and generous hearts, and that said a lot about the person I never really got to know.
Unfortunately, that was the last time I saw her awake and talking.
When we left the nursing home, we saw a man standing at the reception. “I’m an American citizen. I’m a free man. All I want to do is get some fresh air,” he said. He wanted to take his arm and lead him outside, but instead we punched in the code to the door to get out.
“Don’t ever put me in one of these places,” I told my husband. “I know you are here for your own good, but the thought of losing my freedom is too much.”
I got the call on Friday afternoon. “Mom’s not well,” Peter said. Just last week we were told he wouldn’t make it through the weekend so we canceled our plans but then he got better. My gut told me this was not the case now, so I headed straight for the nursing home. Peter’s sister saw the tears in my eyes as I looked at her mother and she came over to hug me. Her husband and Peter’s brother sat sadly near her, and her aunt and cousin sat to one side. When the nurse told us that Marilyn’s temperature had risen to 107 degrees, we all knew that was it, but Marilyn held on as we sat by her bed. “She’s always been a tough cookie, hasn’t she, Mom?” Peter’s sister said, tears in her eyes as she gently stroked her mother’s hand.
At that moment, Phyllis, the roommate, walked into the room and started rummaging through her closet. She could hear her name everything. “That’s mine, that’s not mine… Oh, I don’t like it when they take my things,” she muttered.
“She’s always accusing us of stealing one of her slippers,” Peter’s brother whispered. “I still think she should take it and give her something real to complain about,” he laughed. Phyllis’s after-dinner ritual was to go into the room and rummage through her closet.
It is an enigma, Alzheimer’s is. Sometimes you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. We know their victims are suffering a terrible fate, but it’s hard not to laugh at the things they say or do.
Peter’s sister encouraged us to take a dinner break. “This could go on all night. You should go eat something,” she said. We offered to bring food and asked his brother to come with us, but he refused. We went out together with Peter’s aunt.
“Sometimes they wait until everyone has left before they let go,” he said. “So maybe it’s better if there are fewer people in the room.”
We drove to a nearby Italian restaurant and ordered something to eat at the bar. Just as we were finishing up, Peter got a text that Marilyn had died. We quickly receive the check and run back to the nursing home.
There was a strange sense of relief in the room. We all hugged each other and cried for Marilyn as we waited for the funeral director to arrive. I knew she had bonded me to Peter’s sister that night, but I felt guilty for dragging Peter from his mother’s deathbed. I knew he never would have left for dinner if I hadn’t been there, but I took some comfort in the thought that maybe she waited until after he left to let him go.
Later, I convinced Peter to write something about his mother to read in his service. He worried he wouldn’t make it without breaking down, but he wrote it anyway. And so it was, after days of preparation and hours of calling, we stood under the canopy of our grievance to say goodbye to Marilyn. We stood around as Peter bravely told some light-hearted stories about his mother, bringing wistful smiles to everyone’s faces. He did well to the end and only collapsed in his final statement.
At the end of the service, Peter’s eldest son, who was very close to his grandmother, sang “I Will Follow You Into the Dark”.
My love, one day you will die
But I’ll be very close and I’ll follow you in the dark
No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tightly, waiting for the hint of a spark.
If heaven and hell decide that they are both satisfied
And illuminate the no’s on their vacancy signs
If there is no one by your side when your soul begins
Then I’ll follow you into the dark… the time to sleep is now
But it’s nothing to cry about
‘Cause soon we’ll hold each other in the darkest room
Not a dry eye was to be seen.
I like to think that Marilyn is dancing in heaven now and is no longer in pain or confused. Somehow, convincing ourselves of such things helps ease the pain of losing a loved one.
