A new reader prompted reflection on where I am in this journey
Many new readers of Unchosen Journey have discovered this website in the early stages of their own journey. The Alzheimer’s diagnosis in their family is new, and they’re seeking some courage for facing the future.
But Evelyn and I are at least six years into our story. I always hope these new readers will look back at earlier posts because my experiences these days are likely different from theirs.
My confusion and frustration and fear and grief in the first years of Evelyn’s decline have been replaced with something less piercing. The grief is still there, but often it’s not as specific as before.
Rapid succession, bigger picture
When I started this blog almost two years ago, the changes were coming in rapid succession, each one a new loss that threatened to undo me. Between the lines in letters from new readers, it’s easy to discern a similar, almost-overwhelming exhaustion.
Now I’m looking at a bigger picture. Evelyn is in an unstoppable decline, but she’s experiencing it in the care of full-time professionals. I’m a bystander, stopping by to evaluate that care and making small efforts to engage or please her:
Sharing Hershey’s miniatures or a Cutie orange.
Leafing through the photo album I put together before she moved and reminding her of what’s happening in each picture.
Listening to music together and sometimes singing along with the hymns. Usually she mouths a few phrases with me, but seldom the whole song.
Sometimes, if I think back to the vibrant person she once was, I can’t quell the tears. But more often if I cry these days, it’s a big-picture lament. Evelyn’s deterioration has become for me just one more example of the devastating brokenness common to the human experience. Everyone I know is coping with a some set of losses.
Threats to a marriage.
Withering side effects from a treatment meant to heal.
Shocking, sudden death.
Financial pressure.
Chronic, exhausting disease.
Relationships painfully strained or shattered.
Disappointments common to getting older.
In each case, though, the people I know are coping. And by God’s grace and with his help (usually experienced via the goodness of my friends), so am I. So I don’t stay with the sadness for long. I move forward, trying to be at least a small help to others’ survival. Turning toward them fights my tendency to be self-absorbed.
Fears for the future
I thought about all this after answering a couple of emails from a new reader. His wife, retired from her career as a successful college professor, has been diagnosed with the disease, still in its very early stages.
He confessed his fears about the future: her health and their finances. He said he was surprised at how quickly he had become a caregiver. “Sadly a great fear of mine is that this will drag on for a decade or more,” he wrote. “I feel quite guilty about those thoughts.”
I saw myself in his letter. I felt his emotion; I’ve shared those fears. I’m no expert; mine is just one more story, but I decided maybe something in my experience would encourage him. And then I decided maybe some other readers would resonate with my note to him, too.
So I’ll share what I wrote to him—next week. It’s too long to add here.
Looking back
Even if no one else can relate to what I’m feeling as I think back, the process helps me. I have survived quite a lot. I am seeking and taking next steps. As Matt Proctor said in this space not long ago, sometimes a look back provides just the perspective we need to move forward.