Despite how he looks in the photograph, Dale was never comfortable dancing like this. He used to laugh and say that the ballroom dance classes his mother sent him to as a boy never “took.” Still, he was a good sport when it came to my love of dance. And in our dance of life, Dale has been a sure-footed and grace-full partner.
Our “dance” as a couple was not always smooth, especially in the beginning. We occasionally stepped on each other’s toes, broke connection, heard the beat differently. But over the years of our marriage, certain patterns and rhythms emerged: the pace of conversations, the meaning of a certain look or touch, the balance of time together and time apart, the holding of our joys and pain.
As we danced through life together, these small intricate movements became our muscle memory, our own unique choreography, the composition “us.”
We barely noticed when Alzheimer’s disease entered the dance floor. It stood off to the side, an irritating distraction causing us to cling more closely together. But over time it grew loud and bold. Like a drunken party-goer, it rudely broke in and disrupted our dance, requiring us to learn new steps on the fly. It altered the patterns and rhythms that were familiar and dear to us. Its unpredictable behavior now forces near-constant improvisation.
Today there is another threat lurking outside the dance hall, a virus that has the potential to further disrupt, and even end, our dance together.
While I take my cues from Dale’s movements, it is up to me to guide us safely across the dance floor. How do I remain sure-footed when these intruders are intent on doing all they can to cause me to lose my balance? How do I move forward with grace when pulled down toward fear and despair?
There are certain practices that help. Even if I could do them consistently, there would be days I’d be caught off balance anyway. That is the nature of the intruder we live with. Here are some lessons I am learning:
- Remember to breathe. As one of my dance teachers used to say when we would concentrate so hard that we’d forget: “Breathing is good!” Yes! A deep breath provides needed oxygen and helps me focus and relax into the next move.
- Warm-ups are essential. Every ballet class begins with time at the barre, where basic steps are practiced and strengthened. I can’t dance with Dale, especially now, without practicing basic self-care (self-love): eating well, sleeping as well as I can, making time for solitude and prayer, exercising, and taking breaks.
- Be gentle with myself. Improvisation is hard and new steps can be scary. Mistakes are to be expected. It is best—for Dale and for me—if I can forgive myself and keep dancing.
- Be present in the moment. I can lose my footing by focusing behind with regret or ahead with dread. Also, the present is where Dale IS, and a touch or look can bring us shared joy.
- It’s no solo act. Leaning into the ensemble that surrounds us—friends, family, support groups, professional caregivers— helps keep me steady and balanced.
- Look up and smile. Laughing, singing, and (literally) dancing together have always been a part of our life, and they continue to lift our hearts.
- Focus on what I can control. I can’t control the actions of these two diseases. I CAN focus on my own steps—protecting us as well as I can from the virus and adapting to the changes that Alzheimer’s brings.
Our dance together has been altered significantly by Alzheimer’s over the past 10 years. Much has been lost and the sadness at times can be overwhelming. However, the love that brought us together 35 years ago remains. Our basic connection endures. Love abides and abounds! Thanks be to God!