When Illness Makes a Spouse a Stranger (can we talk?)

[bigtree]

212. what I wanted to say, Steve

Last edited Sun May 10, 2015, 01:59 AM - Edit history (1)

...the first thing my wife said to me when I read her your post was that it's just typical for someone here to come onto a post and literally try to suck the life out of it. You took it as well as you probably could. People are like that. It's easy to forget - I know from experience - that there are real live people on the other end of the cable when typing out a judgmental response; often people with all sorts of challenges and difficulties. It's easy to forget that. Your post is as good a reminder as any I've ever come across.

I don't know how I knew what was ailing you, but I read between the lines and just knew, somehow, that you were in a fight to hold onto the essence of what's essentially 'Omaha Steve.' You're doing a damn fine job of it, in my opinion.

Thing about DU is, Steve, there isn't ever going to be a point where you should be as critically judged - as you were, on how cogent you are - on any post you make; no matter who you are or what you're state of mind. Still, it's going to happen and I'm as sorry as anyone that it's prompted you to withdraw from the forum. - in fact, I'm mad as hell about it.

Thing is about your life, Steve, is that many, many folks are gratified to read anything you relate - however you relate it here. We only have this one shot -this miracle of life - to look out to the stars and back to Earth again, and, if we're lucky or fortunate enough, to relate with each other.

I don't speak of this often because I feel so much about it that I've thought a mere mention would trivialize the experience and I'd lose the preciousness of it all, but, let me say this...

My dad suffered with Alzheimer's disease at the end of his life and I spent four amazing and gratifying years with him living with me. We were the best of buds, he and I - no doubt because he had forgotten what a hard-ass he used to be. Yep, those were the most gratifying years of my life taking care of him and I don't think I'll ever match them. I treasured each and everything he said to me; no matter how mundane, incoherent, or confused. That's the way it is with folks you love.

And yes, Steve, there was a long period at the end of his life when he didn't speak, at all. What I would have given to hear him again chattering on about...anything. The last time he really communicated with me was the night before I was to take him to a nursing home.

He hadn't spoken in almost a year and my Dad looked up at me and said, 'You did a good job."

I was so shocked I thought I was going to choke on the tears welling up. "What?" was all I could manage to say.

"You really did a good job," he said.

"S-So did you," I answered him as soon as I could catch my breath.

Yep, the last thing he ever spoke directly to me. I value that moment more than any in my entire life. That's the way it is with folks you love and care about. It really doesn't matter how we relate to each other - it's more important that we can and do.

I was listening to this new song on the radio on the way home as I was thinking about what to say to you and it's running through my head as I type this. It's nothing as nearly morose as what I wrote and that's a good thing...

It's a song by 'The Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band' - Let's Jump A Train …

Let's paint your house

Into the dark

Outside the city lights

You can still see the stars

*Let's go everywhere

Let's do everything

Let's raise a sail

Let's jump a train*

We can't be heard

Chained to the floor

I say we take a chance

Outside the door

*Let's go everywhere

Let's do everything

Let's raise a sail

Let's jump a train!*


Jump a train, Steve.