The velvet soft touch of a single red rose reminded me of the man who had
been my Valentine for thirty-five years. The scent of Old Spice transported my
mind to the hot summer day when I met a broad-shouldered boy with curly blond
hair.
Jim
created magic with his Fender guitar, and his smooth, rich voice wooed me with
romantic love songs. By summer’s end, our long, intimate conversations and
physical attraction created a special bond between us, and ensured that ours
was not merely a summer romance.
Our romantic love evolved into a
deeper emotion as we settled down to married life and parenthood. Jim’s music,
our closeness, and family became components of our daily existence. We bonded
into one being, and Jim frequently said, “I know you better than you know
yourself.” The truth of his words was
proven as he became my sounding board for all life’s major decisions.
Early in the disease, our romantic
love remained intact as we united to cope with the devastating diagnoses. As
the dementia progressed, romance gradually disappeared, and I adapted to my
shifting role in our relationship. Jim began a downward spiral toward a
childlike dependence on me, coupled with a trust that I would protect him.
The stress had taken a toll on me.
If I was at home, I was dealing with Jim’s outbursts of anger, or moments of
total confusion. When I was at work, the caregiver would call when Jim was out
of control, and I would return home to manage him. Jim began to wander off, and
I became adept at finding him. Eventually, I realized he needed to be in a safe
place where more than one person could provide his care.
Dementia laid waste to my husband’s
brain and the disease caused an underlying layer of grief that permeated my
innermost emotions. For the past ten years, the erosion of Jim—husband, father,
grandfather, son, brother—relentlessly stole him from his family’s grasp.
Jim
began to exist on a different level, another plane of existence, than the rest
of the world. He seemed to be in a faraway place, occasionally glancing back to
recognize those of us he had left behind.
I
walked into his room at the nursing home on Valentine’s Day. I hugged him,
closed my eyes, smelled his Old Spice cologne, and was once again holding a
broad-shouldered, blond-haired boy on a hot summer day. Perhaps, we were
together in the same faraway place on that special day, and he remembered me,
and knew I was still his Valentine.
Copyright © February 2023 by L.S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com
#ENDALZ
Note: Jim mailed the Valentine to me from Vietnam in 1970 in an envelope with postage marked "Free."
1 comment:
That was so beautifully said but at the same time I wish I could hug you cousin until all your pain was gone. Love you Sherry Capps Fischer
Post a Comment