December 20, 2024
Watching Bill go through the various stages of dementia is heartbreaking. In fact, I spend a good portion of my time in therapy crying about it. My therapist suggested I write about how I feel as a form of processing. So here goes . . .
At our age, arthritis is part of life; but, Bill doesn't understand that. He's always had an extremely low tolerance for pain, and he's also allergic to most pain medications. He doesn't understand why he hurts and why we can't make it go away. I feel heartbroken.
Bill is visually impaired with no central vision, so he continually asks for an appointment with the eye doctor. He doesn't understand that we've been there many times, and they've done everything they can to "fix" his eye. He just wants glasses so he can see. I feel incompetent.
Bill's reality continues to slip further away as the disease progresses, despite changes in medication. Some days when I visit, he tells me he is a famous star, and he's being hunted by paparazzi. Other days, he's working on imaginary jobs and having trouble with his "staff." He thinks people are out to get him and he's frightened. I feel powerless.
He's overweight, his legs no longer work, and he's stuck in a wheelchair. He can't lift himself, so he has to be lifted by a machine to get out of bed or go to the bathroom. I hate hearing him cry out, "It hurts; it hurts" as they turn the wheel to get him upright. Why can't they make a better way to get him up and down? It reminds me of cattle strung up to be butchered. I feel angry.
The VA facility where Bill resides is excellent. It's spacious, super clean, and staffed better than most nursing homes. However, visiting Bill there still offers a grim preview of his future—a future I’m helpless to change. In the two years he's been there, I've watched residents in various stages of the disease come and go. Every week, I see visitors gently trying to coax their loved ones to eat, offering meals of lifeless, gray mush—meat and vegetables blended into a flavorless paste to avoid aspiration. I see residents slumped over in their wheelchairs, sleeping for hours at a time. The staff encourages them to move, to catch a ball, to sing a song, or to color on a sheet of paper. But they just keep sleeping . . . I feel frightened.
Why can’t there be an easier way? We don't let our pets go through this. I wouldn’t let my dog, Oreo, suffer like this, but I can’t stop Bill from going through it. And if I could, would I make that decision? To end his life? It’s agonizing enough to make that decision for an animal. But, for my husband? I don’t think I could. I feel spineless . . .
