Shared Story: I treasure the walk through the battlefield we shared

Today’s shared story is curated from several pieces of correspondence with Paul Boatman,
retired professor, chaplain, and counselor in Lincoln, Illinois.

When I read his comment on an early post on this blog, I knew I wanted to share it:

My retrospective view of the final 10 years of my 52 years of marriage to Mary led me to realize that, in significant ways, those 10 years when Alzheimer's was ever-so-insistently increasing its control over OUR lives were some of the greatest years of our marriage. All of the frustration, irritability, repetition (what an understated word), and the uncertainty about tomorrow found a balance in the durability of love and the persistence of a strong spirit that could not be silenced by the disruption of pervasive dementia. We were able to live out the vows we solemnly, though naively, took over a half-century earlier.

 Traveling with Alzheimer’s

About nine years into their journey, Paul and Mary were interviewed by Channel 20 in Springfield, Illinois. The news peg was “How a family living with Alzheimer’s prepares to travel for the holidays.” Paul told the interviewer, “Flexibility, simplicity, and careful attention” are the three things needed when traveling with an Alzheimer’s patient. “I’m a more protective husband now than I ever intended to be.”

From that newscast:

 One way the Boatmans like to cure the inevitable frustrations that come with memory loss: laughter.

“There are sometimes that really, these things are kind of funny,” Paul said. “Why were your keys in the refrigerator, for example.”

“I don't think I ever did that,” Mary said. “Yes, you did,” Paul said with a chuckle.

Paul said caregivers need to keep an eye on items brought on the trip.

“We've developed what we call a Cane Distribution Network,” Paul said. “We've distributed canes at rest stops and restaurants and things like that around the country.”

“But I say to him, well why didn't you notice that I didn't have it with me when we were walking out?” Mary said.

“And I'm getting better about that,” Paul said.

 (The photos in this post are taken with permission from that broadcast.)

Writing and singing

Paul found meaning in writing new words to familiar tunes, and he shared a couple of his poems with me:

Together in a Lonely Walk
To the tune of “You Lift Me Up”

When I’m with you I mix my joy and sadness,
I celebrate when recall breaks through gloom.
And then I mourn when darkness clouds your memories
Because I know your joys have left too soon

I’ll walk with you, as memories elude you
I'm with you tho confusion reigns inside
I’ll walk along if silence overtakes you
Because we know, inside our love abides 

Broken Memory, Sustaining Love
To the tune of “Morning Has Broken”

Memory has broken, like the night falling
Clarity his drifted, the thoughts slide away
I stand here and watch you, helpless to hold you,
I can’t bring your mind back, but I’ll still pray

I want you to know that I’ll walk beside you
I’m here when you know me. When you don’t, I will stay
You’ll be my partner, so long as you’re living
I’ll choose to love you, through end of the day

Last days

Paul wrote about his last days with Mary, August 27, 28, 2018:

Eventually, congestive heart failure (first discovered by her neurologist during one of her infusions for a longitudinal drug study) brought the journey to a close. Our "last supper" was shared with Wayne and Janet Shaw who brought a meal to our home. Mary had a wonderful time as she and Janet reflected on a camp experience they shared 65 years earlier.

Ten minutes after they left, Mary asked, "Are we having company tonight?"

The next morning as she awakened, her breathing was a bit labored. As I rubbed her back and shoulders to relax her, she glanced up and smiled, "It's okay."

I sat back and admired her peaceful smile for a few seconds before realizing that she just left.

Because I knew death was coming, I thought I was prepared, but I held her and sobbed for the better portion of an hour before I began making those phone calls.

I've never wanted to bring her back to the battle she was fighting, but I treasure the walk through the battlefield that we shared.