The grief, the challenge, and ultimately the blessing of our journey
Today’s shared story
comes from David Corts,
a retired minister who lives in Atlanta, Georgia with his wife, Sylvia.
Our dementia experience first raised concern in 2005. My brother Tom and his wife were visiting us in Arizona, and Sylvia expressed openly for the first time her worry over repeated trouble finding her way home in the car. We went through the routine of trying to minimize her concern. Our primary care doctor soon after scheduled her for a psychological exam, but I learned later she had called and canceled it. From then to the present, we experienced the gradual descent to the immobility and complete need for assistance that is her life now. The help includes bathing, dressing, feeding, and drinking, lying down or turning over.
First experiences
Others have described the long, slow journey toward death, and our experience is similar, but each case has a uniqueness of its own. Our slow-motion journey has held many surprises like flooding our bathroom and bedroom during the first month in our new home. Then there was finding her unconscious from dehydration right after breakfast one morning; she was in the hospital for three days. There was lots of excitement in the early stages of the disease.
Just after Sylvia’s 78th birthday, July 2018. The last day she went to a beauty salon where she had gone weekly for four years. The salon didn’t think they could manage her anymore, and they didn’t want Dave to help.
When the label “Alzheimer’s” came from a doctor, Sylvia did accept it and swung into action. She made an aggressive effort to guarantee I knew the songs she wanted sung at her funeral, took up a time-consuming effort to label a box of family pictures, and made a valiant attempt to organize her favorite recipes that had delighted her sons and friends. It didn’t work as she intended, but it sure wasn’t for lack of effort. Early on we learned that the one constant we could count on is change. Each of the many stages required adjustments to the caregiving routines.
Tackling grief
The process of grief attacked me early and didn’t go away quickly. I seemed to move slowly through Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief, and I realize I’m not finished yet. But my personal pity-party ended one day in our guest bedroom where I had a prolonged conversation with God. The conclusion was my commitment to give care to Sylvia as a co-laborer with God. It was my “calling” till death do us part. There have been no more pity parties since, but constant audible conversations with the Lord.
During the week of my extended war with grief, I awakened to the reality that Sylvia is grieving too. She has her eyes fastened on me when I am dressing her or eating with her and responds with looks of sorrow if I'm not smiling.
I awakened to the reality that Sylvia is grieving too.
Some of the moments I recognized her grief were very sweet and tender and memorable. For example, she worried for a year and a half over “How will I find you in heaven?” My answer was always the same. “Ask your guardian angel. Remember, Jesus told the story of the beggar Lazarus who died and was carried to Abraham’s side by the angels (Luke 16:22).” She had many other discussions that made for interesting conversations. But then came more change and those kinds of talks ceased.
Deciding to move
It was the label “Alzheimer’s” by doctors that meant an end to excuses and marked for us the need to make definite plans. It prodded us to immediate action on various strategies for our older years we had talked about since midlife. We were not strangers to the disease. My mother died in 1998 with Alzheimer’s at the age of 87. Sylvia’s father died with Alzheimer’s in 2010 at the age of 95. Both of them were living in a well-known memory care chain.
The comparisons didn’t seem to help because their experiences were distinctively different. Our Atlanta neurologist told us, “There are many different kinds of dementia, but we tend to call them all Alzheimer’s disease.” Whatever one calls it, a label like Alzheimer’s changed our situation. We moved quickly toward getting closer to our sons and siblings and started serious downsizing.
We started serious downsizing.
We had spent 18 years in Arizona and enjoyed it very much. We had developed many close friendships, loved the climate, and marveled at the variety in Arizona’s natural beauty.
Suddenly, there was an urgency to our desire to move to the East. David Jr. and his wife Sylvia (yes, our son married a Sylvia) lived in Atlanta with our four grandchildren, and we chose that as our destination.
After many conversations and investigations, we chose to stay in our own home with homecare assistance until God called us home, if possible. My oldest son, David Jr., had lived there 18 years at the time. At his invitation, we pooled our resources and bought within the beltway a house adequate for his family and land enough to build a new, small home for Sylvia and me. This we did in the year 2014 and sold our home in Arizona.
Christopher is our youngest son, a lawyer who teaches in the law school of the University of Richmond, Virginia. He came to Arizona and helped us pack and move. At this stage Sylvia tried to help but was better at unpacking than packing. We already had a small condo in Atlanta for periodic visits to see our grandchildren. We sold our house in Peoria, Arizona and went to live in our condo for the next year while our house was built on the new property.
Ringside view
It has proved to be a wonderful arrangement for which we will be eternally grateful. The whole family has experienced a ringside view of all the stages we’ve been through.
Sylvia and I have been so blessed to watch the grandchildren grow up—their achievements, failures, and best of all acceptance of Christ and baptism. Plus, our son and his wife and family have added caregiving assistance for the last eight years.
Sylvia has lost the ability to speak their names, but without a doubt knows she is attached to them in a special way. I’ve learned some of the language of her speechless words. It includes watching her eyes and smiles, observing the contrasts of vacant and alert looks and more that is hard to describe. Then there are still her sporadic moments of clarity in speech that is recognized by anyone in her presence. In her occasional lucid moments, what she says overwhelms me with mystery and intrigue.
I’ve learned the language of some of her speechless words.
When she sees my back aching at night, tears will start down her cheek and fear seep over her face. Within the last 10 days she said to me clearly (which is intriguing to me because she can only rarely speak so clearly), "Dave, you've done enough."
We purchased regular homecare assistance until Covid hit. Our family has handled the caregiving together with me since then. We will be returning to full-time assistance in the near future.
I am privileged
I want you to know that for me the journey is worth all that I could ever possibly expect, and I thank God in the morning and the last thing at night for letting us have this time together. I have felt the love of God more than at any time in our 61-plus years of married life and ministry.
My love and respect for Sylvia have grown. When she awakens anytime day or night and sees my face, she smiles and sometimes says, “Oh there you are!” I am privileged to walk the valley of the shadow of death with one who gave her life for our family and the ministry of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
