Separated

My husband and I don’t live together.  

We’re not divorced.   We’re not mad at each other.  He is not traveling out of state.  My husband has Alzheimer’s Disease.  He is now living in a lock-down care facility at the Veterans Home.

Having him go into a care center was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make.  The VA called saying they had an available bed.  Knowing how difficult it is to get into this facility, I had put my husband’s name on the list two years ago.  Still, I wasn’t prepared for the call.  

After discussing it with our children, his siblings, and my siblings, we were  all 100% on board of having him go.  I’m thankful for that.  If he was capable of making decisions, we all feel my husband would agree the Veterans Home is the best place for him to be, now.

But it’s still hard - very very hard - for us to be living apart.  When I ask the workers how he is doing, they say he is not sleeping at night.  Well imagine that.  I’m not either.  

Some well meaning friends and acquaintances tell me, “The Veterans home will give him better care than you were able to give him at home.”

My rebellious self thinks, it’s a great place, but better than ME? 

Do they know that I can tell exactly when he is hungry and when he needs to go to the bathroom?

Do they know I have it down to a science how to help him get dressed in the morning and (sometimes) undressed at night?

Do they know that the day before he went into the VA Home, we were in the mountains walking along a stream, holding hands, which we have been doing almost every day this summer?  

Do they know we snuggled on our couch practically every night watching clean mushy Hallmark movies?  

Hmmm.  But perhaps, on the other hand,  they know  that showers were becoming a disaster.   Maybe they know that I sometimes had to cut my husband out of his clothes, because that was the only way I could figure out how to get them off.

Perhaps they know, as well as I do, that things are getting tough, and would soon become more than I can handle.  

At night, I am lonely - very very lonely.  We’ve been married 50 years.  We celebrated our anniversary five days before he entered the VA home.  I grieve not having him next to me.

When I wake up, my first thought is Bob.

After I get my chores done, I take a 15 minute drive to visit him.  He’s shaved and dressed and sitting contently in the common room with the other guys.  

We go upstairs for little walks in the courtyard.  We watch the tortoise eat strawberries.   We sing, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” and “Down by the Old Millstream”.  I ask him what his name is, and he usually doesn’t know.  When we go back inside, Lulu, the baby kangaroo is often there, jumping down the corridor in diapers. 

We take the elevator back down to the Alzheimer’s Unit.  On our way down, we hug and kiss. I tell him, “I love you.”  Before the elevator door opens, I wait for him to tell me he loves me, too.  On good days, he does.