On my 67th wedding anniversary, I visited the facility where my wife lives with other dementia patients. As usual, she did not recognize me. She barely speaks.
I do not believe she suffers emotional distress, but I do. Witnessing her decline is debilitating. I kept her at home with round-the-clock care until two years ago, when it became unsafe for her to stay there because she had become aggressive and would wander. Now I live alone in the home we shared, and I am trying to cope with the bruising experience of loneliness. I am told it is a curable malady, and I am following the advice of others. I made my living as an author and playwright, and I continue to write, exercise daily and force myself to socialize. I am told it will take time. I am 91. How much time?
I often go to visit Sonia with our oldest son, who, like me, lives in Manhattan. Having him along eases the trauma of what I must confront. For this support, I am beyond grateful.
Mostly I see my wife through a veil of tears, which I try desperately to hide. I reckon I have shed more tears during the past five years of her battle with dementia than I have through any other phase of my life.
All lives have their moments of pain, angst, trouble and strife. Mine is no exception, although, on balance, the rewards have far, far outweighed the punishments. Still, the most consistent fact of my life has been the long and loving relationship I have had with my gorgeous, devoted, adored and adoring best friend — not merely the love of my life but the North Star by which I navigated. Indeed, whatever modest success I have had in the pursuit of my dreams, I owe totally to her. Though not for the reasons one might suspect.
Of course, I wanted to succeed as a writer but not at all for the traditional plaudits of the crowd. Instead, it was to make her proud, to validate her lifelong belief in my pursuits. In turn, I reveled in her spectacular successes as a journalist in Washington, where she covered the lives of the capital’s movers and shakers.
The profound irony of these terrible last moments of our charmed life together is that while her memories of those days have passed on to oblivion, mine remain intact and, by some odd miracle, enhanced. I can remember every facet of our life together, from my first glimpse of her lying on a beach blanket at age 19 in a pristine white bathing suit — a stunning, slender beauty who put Cupid’s dart right in the solar plexus of my 22-year-old self, a dart that’s never been dislodged in nearly seven decades.
Courtesy Warren Adler
Warren Adler, 91, is the author of The War of the Roses. His new novel, Last Call, deals with a late-life love affair.