The movement of Alzheimer’s disease is uneven. Sometimes abilities are lost and then return, only to be lost again. It can be difficult to know when something is finally gone. Until it finally is.
This is my reality now.
As parents mark precious “firsts” in their children—first smile, first words, first steps—I have now marked “lasts” for my beloved Dale: last steps (October 25), last smile (November 3), last breath (November 9, 11:36pm). He was at home when he made his final transition. He was peaceful.
There was a shift to some other space and time during those last days of Dale’s life. I functioned as if in a bubble that cushioned me from the shock of what was to come…following instructions from the hospice nurse…facilitating calls and visits from loved ones. I talked to Dale, telling him how much I loved him and what a brave man he was. I recited the 23rd Psalm and the Lord’s Prayer. I sat beside his bed and sang hymns.
And he sang to me. One last time.
When the disease removed Dale’s vocabulary, he replaced it with his own words. They were almost always happy and upbeat, often rhymed, and were strung together in sing-song-y ways.
One last time I heard them. It was also the last time he looked at me and smiled. His voice was a whisper, but that night he sang to me: those sweet rhyming words. Happy and peaceful.
Dale’s last transition on his journey with Alzheimer’s disease mirrored his first. He had faced the enormity of his diagnosis with acceptance, writing soon afterward of his “trust in God’s Grace and God’s guidance.” He walked the journey this way, too: with acceptance and trust.
His way is a model as I make my own transition and adjust to life without his physical presence.
Like his disease, the movement of grief is uneven. Sometimes I inch forward, creating a new pattern for myself, only to be triggered—by a memory, a song, an item of his clothing—into the intense pain of loss. During those times, I miss him, every version of him—Dale before his disease and Dale during the journey. I miss his broad smile, his warm hugs, his loud voice, his big, hearty laugh.
Sometimes in the silence, I remember his reality checks and hear again what he said about his condition:
“Okay, this is it. I don’t like it. I didn’t want it. But I’ve got it. And I’m going to do the best I can with it.”
And again, I say, “Me, too, Dale. Me, too.”
https://www.whitakerfuneralhome.com/obituaries/Dale-Robert–Sessions?obId=23049978#/obituaryInfo
A beautiful love song, Norma. Such a gift to share with us all. God bless you always. Each person is different, but my Mother speaks of missing my Father in the same way you talk about Dale
Love
Jeannie
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Thank you so much, Jeannie.
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Beautiful lessons for all of us. Thank you. Hugs to you in your transition.
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Thank you so much, Teresa.
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Bless you, Norma, for sharing this wonderful and inspirational story. Your journey with Dale was much like my journey with my daughter who died September 13, 2014. There are still moments that catch me off guard, as I am sure you will experience also. But Dale’s quiet faith is echoed in your writings, and that is what will see you through. I know because I am living with the peace my daughter left me…most of the time. My heart aches for your loss! Thank you for sharing!
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Thank you so much, Barbara. Bless you as you live with the loss of your daughter. Your experience of peace gives me hope. Thank you for reading my blog and sharing your thoughts with me.
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Norma, Your spirit and Dale’s spirit have shown through what you have shared with us with such beauty and humanity. I am warmed and inspired. Thank you for including us in your joys and your sorrows and in your reflections. All my very best wishes.
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Thank you so much, Dana.❤️
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