Through Thick and Thin

 

Through Thick and Thin

Originally published in Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Miracle of Love

Gratitude is the memory of the heart.

~Jean-Baptiste Massieu

 

The doctors faced us across the steel table in a small, gray office at the Veterans’ Hospital. They looked at us for a long moment and then began to go over the results of the mental test they had administered to my husband, John.

 

“While some of the tests are normal, most of them show you have weakened abilities in the areas of memory and judgment, sir.” The doctor paused and took a deep breath. John felt for my hand and held on to me tightly.

 “I’m sorry to tell you that the final diagnosis is ‘advanced cognitive impairment with significant short-term memory loss.’ This will probably progress into dementia.”

I felt like they had kicked me in the stomach, and I couldn’t breathe. It seemed like all the air had been sucked out of that small space. I felt John’s hand tightening painfully on mine, and then it began to shake uncontrollably. I wanted to grab him and run out of that place, away from them and their calm, clinical words that would change our lives forever.

Instead, we stood, thanked them and walked slowly as John maneuvered his way down the hall with his right hand on his cane and his left arm looped through mine. We didn’t talk as we clung to each other all the way to the car.

“What are we going to do?” John asked me on the drive home. “I don’t want you to have to take care of me for the rest of our lives!”

 I had loved this man for twenty-six years. We had met in the Angels Booster Club and grown close through our common love of baseball. We moved slowly in the relationship since both of us had been through painful divorces. I came to know him as an honorable, kind and thoughtful man. His parents and my mom and sister grew to love each other as well. I adored his daughter and John was excited to be a stepfather to my children and grandchildren. Our wedding was a true blending of our families as the minister placed everyone’s hands on the Bible and declared, “I now pronounce you one family brought together by God.”

We had taken care of my mother, and then John’s parents and my sister at the end of their lives. We had always told ourselves that our time would come to enjoy our freedom and travel when we retired.

Then I had colon cancer surgery on our twenty-fifth anniversary and had to postpone our dream trip to New England. “Don’t worry,” John had told me then, “we will be able to travel later. You’ll see.”

 So the following year, we planned a trip on a paddlewheel boat up the Mississippi from New Orleans to Memphis with ten friends from our church. A few weeks before we left, I developed a painful kidney stone. When the doctors went in to remove it, they found another tumor that had to be removed. Again John told me, “Don’t worry, you will be up and around in time for our trip.”

His positivity must have worked because we went on our trip and had a lovely time. I did notice, though, that he had more trouble walking and was confused on the boat about where our cabin was. On the trip home, John lost his balance and took a bad fall in the Dallas airport as we hurried to change planes on our way back to California.

When we got home, the doctor scheduled a three-hour mental evaluation for John. It seemed the results of that test would derail the future we had planned together. All of this flashed through my head as we headed for home after the doctor’s crushing diagnosis.

 John put his hand on my knee as I drove, waiting for me to answer.

 “Okay, that was the medical diagnosis, but they don’t know us,” I told him. “We have weathered every storm together, and this will be no different! We will eat healthy and exercise every day. Maybe the extra oxygen will help your brain stay clear longer.”

 “This is not the future we had planned, and I don’t want you to be saddled with caring for me,” John whispered.

 “We are stronger together, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else except with you in this fight,” I assured him. “Besides, I wonder if anyone really ever ends up where they planned to be later in life.”

 We have developed ways of dealing with the memory loss by making lists and using calendars to remind him of plans. I administer his many medications, sit in on all his medical appointments, and encourage him to participate in activities with our church, relatives and friends.

This once proud, decorated soldier is slowly fading away. My heart hurts for him, but there is nowhere I want to be except by his side. I’m not always patient or the perfect caretaker, but our love and commitment are strong, and we are quick to forgive each other for our mistakes. We’ve learned to be grateful for the time we have together and we manage to live joyfully.

 

 ~Judee Stapp