Letting go of loved ones is never easy, even when they have been struggling for years with a debilitating condition; Even if we say it was a “blessing”, it is never easy to say goodbye.
Marilyn, my mother-in-law, was only 75 years old, but she had had Alzheimer’s for almost three years and was progressing very quickly. I was told that one in 10 people 65 and older has 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 would often come home with some fun stories to share. We both knew they weren’t really funny … but sometimes we couldn’t help but laugh.
Sometimes his mother recognized him and sometimes he just spoke nonsense, but was always nice to him. However, there were stories that she was not so nice to the nurses, so when Peter asked me to go with him, I was sometimes scared. I was afraid she would yell at me and say something hurtful, but I knew it was time for me to visit her, so one day we went to the nursing home. I hadn’t seen her in over a year, and to say that I was surprised would be an understatement. She was half the size she was the last time I saw her and she couldn’t walk anymore. The shock took my breath away and I had to leave the room to regain my composure. When I reentered the room, I passed Marilyn’s roommate, Phyllis. “You’re a pretty girl,” he said with a smile, then went back to worrying about the clothes lying on his bed. I later learned that this was what she “did.”
Peter took his mother’s hand and spoke gently to her, and she looked at him and called him “daddy.” It wasn’t until the nurse came into the room that she noticed me. He looked at me and then whispered to Peter, “How old is he?”
“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 strangely suspicious of me, which was exactly what I feared, but then she seemed to walk away. Due to Alzheimer’s disease, I did not know her well, but I knew that she was a strong and 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.
Sadly, that was the last time I saw her awake and talking.
As we left the nursing home, we saw a man standing at the reception. “I am an American citizen. I am a free man. All I want to do is go out and get some air,” he said. I wanted to take him by the arm and lead him outside, but instead we dialed the door code to leave.
“Never put me in one of these places,” I told my husband. “I know they are here for their own good, but the thought of losing my freedom is too much.”
I got the call on Friday afternoon. “Mom is not okay,” said Peter. It was last week that we were told that it was not going to happen for the weekend, so we canceled our plans, but then it got better. My instincts told me that this was not the case now, so I went straight to 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 nearby, and her aunt and cousin sat to one side. When the nurse told us that Marilyn’s temperature was rising to 107 degrees, we all knew that was it, but Marilyn held on as we sat next to 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, entered the room and began rummaging through her closet. I could hear her name everything. “That’s mine, that’s not mine … Oh, I don’t like it when they take my things,” he murmured.
“She always accuses us of stealing one of her slippers,” Peter’s brother whispered. “I still think I should take it and give him something real to complain about,” he laughed. Phyllis’s after-dinner ritual was to walk into the room and rummage through her closet.
It’s a riddle, Alzheimer’s is. Sometimes you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. We know that their victims are suffering a terrible fate, but it is 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 get something to eat,” he said. We offered to bring food and asked his brother to come, but he refused. We went out together with Peter’s aunt.
“Sometimes they wait until everyone is gone before letting 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 some food from the bar. Just as we were finishing up, Peter received a text message saying that Marilyn had died. We quickly received the check and ran back to the nursing home.
There was a strange sense of relief in the room. We all hugged and cried for Marilyn as we waited for the funeral director to arrive. I knew I had joined Peter’s sister that night, yet I felt guilty for taking Peter away from his mother’s deathbed. I knew she would never have gone to dinner if I hadn’t been there, but I was somewhat comforted by the thought that maybe she waited until he left to let him go.
Afterward, I convinced Peter to write something about his mother to read in his service. He was worried it wouldn’t make it without breaking, but he wrote it anyway. And so it was, after days of preparation and hours of calls, we stood under the canopy of our grief to say goodbye to Marilyn. We gathered around as Peter bravely told some lighthearted stories about his mother, bringing nostalgic smiles to everyone’s faces. He went all the way and only collapsed on his final statement.
At the conclusion of the service, Peter’s eldest son, who was deeply attached to his grandmother, sang “I will follow you in the dark.”
My love, one day you will die
But I’ll be close and follow you in the dark
No blinding light or tunnels to white doors
Just our hands joined so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark
If heaven and hell decide that they are both satisfied
And light up the no’s on your vacancy posters
If there is no one by your side when your soul embarks
Then I’ll follow you in the dark … The time to sleep is now
But it’s nothing to cry about
Cause we will embrace soon in the darkest rooms
Not a dry eye was visible.
I like to think that Marilyn is dancing in heaven now and she is no longer suffering or confused. Somehow convincing ourselves of such things helps ease the pain of losing a loved one.
