Such a Slow Goodbye

I haven't written about Bob and his dementia journey in a long time; there hasn't been much to add. I visit often, tucking my sorrow deeply under my shirt as I walk in the door so I can greet him, wherever he is that day, with a smile on my face. It is hard. He has hated being a prisoner in the dementia ward, and I have hated it for him, but there has been nothing I could do to change anything; his family has NOT been interested in having me, or anyone else, take him outside for a break.

His deterioration has been noticeable; steady, but slow. Week over week, the changes are slight, but anytime I look back over a couple of months, the downhill trend is clear. 

December found him in unfamiliar waters. He hit some sort of internal tipping point. Over the course of the past two months he has gone from fairly self-sufficient to a literally lost soul, unable to find his way back to his room once he has reached the end of the hall. He fell twice last month, the second time hard enough to knock himself out as he hit the corner of a brick column on his way to the floor. The wound is healing well, but for several weeks he had a spectacular row of stitches in the middle of his forehead.

He still knows me. Not my name, such labels have ceased to hold meaning for him. But as soon as he sets eyes on me, his whole face lights up with the delighted grin of a four year-old child. He gives me a tight hug, like a young one seeking comfort because he has found himself in a scary place. I give him what little comfort I can, grateful my presence seems to help just a little.

His grasp on the spoken word is tenuous - it's fascinating to listen to him. Many words are unrecognizable, but his tone and emphasis remain clear. It's easy to tell if he's happy, worried, angry, thoughtful, curious, or confused, so I can respond in kind, and we can have a conversation of sorts.

After his last tumble, his family called in hospice. *sigh of relief* I like hospice. They've brought in their arsenal of drugs, and he is no longer heart-breakingly anxious. His anger is calmed away. 

One day last month, I was cleaning up his room with one of the aides, and said something about talking to him to show him how to something. She looked at me and quietly said, "Don't try. It won't work. He is gone."

gone? gone. 

She was right. His body is still here, but his mind will grasp no new concepts. He is no longer able to learn.

I've spent a lot of time since then waving goodbye, letting go. I've been working to untangle my heart strings from his; a difficult task given the many years of our close relationship. 

In many ways, it is easier now he is ungrounded in place and time. Once when I came, he was lost in slumber, unable to rouse himself for more than a minute or two at a time. That was the easiest visit because he was at peace.

His family doesn't share details of anything with me, but I know the presence of hospice means they expect the end of his life's journey is in sight. I can hope.

Each visit, as I leave, I untuck my feelings and let the tears flow. I pray to St. James, my friend from the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela on El Camino. I ask him to stay near; to be ready to accompany his fellow disciple home when the time comes for Bob to be set free. I pray his time to be free will come soon.