I had seen him and his wife periodically during the past five years.  Our visits were always rich and delightful.  Although he had been diagnosed for some time with Alzheimer’s, he retained the ability to interact rationally around central experiences of his life. When I visited him, I always did so in the company of his niece (my friend).  She initiated the subjects we would discuss, but both she and Charles’ wife  Wilma included me in the conversation.  He would laugh heartily at tales I told about my growing up.

Charles died recently.  I went with my friend (his niece) to his two memorial services 250 miles away.  We had learned he was deteriorating rapidly the last few months, so we weren’t surprised at his death.  But the certainty did not lessen the grief felt by friends and family.

In the memorial services, as in our conversations before his death, Charles’ identity was clear and interesting.  This clarity emphasizes something we should remember about Alzheimer’s.  Throughout the journey with this disease the dominant skills of one’s life, used often and effectively, become very significant in helping the “patient” stay connected to himself and his family with a sense of joy and usefulness. 

The memorial service drove home these impressions.  Almost everyone who spoke of Charles mentioned his affinity for fishing, playing poker, ballroom dancing, community fraternal memberships, running a large power plant, and his devotion to his family.  All conversations seemed to revolve around these subjects and how they disclosed the man.  During his life, at the heart of each diversion, as well as his work, were his love for people and his expertise in engineering, problem-solving, and strategizing. 

My last conversation with him tapped into some of these deep-rooted subjects.  At the edge of his town a splendid suspension bridge had just been completed spanning the Mississippi River.  He explained in great detail this engineering wonder.  Where he had dinner the previous evening eluded him.  As we talked about the bridge, his former self shone through every word. 

During our visit his niece would ask him about family members.  His mind was able to roll them out, one by one, as he spoke with deep affection and knowledge (though sometimes fragmented) about them.  His grandson, Charlie, occupied a distinctive part of this agenda.  During the memorial service, Charlie embodied what his grandfather would have been proud of – a young man standing tall in a U.S. Army uniform, bearing the challenges, bells, and whistles of a special forces Ranger –but at the moment brought face-to-face with the painful truth of his grandfather’s mortality, and perhaps his own.

Last, but by no means the least, was his devoted wife, Wilma.  She had always seemed a bit regal to me – poised, soft spoken, beautiful, and quietly in charge.  She had been Charles’ caregiver for several years.  Their daughters, neighbors, and Hospice had been a big part of the system supporting Charles.   

But Wilma lingers in my thinking as a profile of courage.  During the years when Alzheimer’s had been most symptomatic and demanding, she had been diagnosed with cancer.  Her public demeanor was always hopeful and courageous.  Her out-of-town daughters were a rock of support. Through the months of chemotherapy and uncertainty, Wilma kept her focus on Charles and pushed through her tryst with cancer as a stalwart, courageous woman.  At the memorial service for Charles her words were sparse, but her demeanor was steady and reassuring. 

We are not witness to all the suffering, mental dilemmas, and emotional rage that must be present in the lives of family members as they endure such an experience.  We all have our private agonies when the shades are drawn between ourselves and all else.  There are always times when cries in the night purge some of the toxic fears that seemed insurmountable when night fell.  Then the sun rises.  Life seems bearable.  As we care for our loved one, we remember what worked before; we repeat it.  We recall what he/she did best or enjoyed more; we engage him/her in some version of this activity.  When the journey is complete, we embrace the memories we have made.  They catapult us into a different future but one comforted by a feeling of having finished this part well.