Does He Still Know You?

I’m asked this question more often now. I don’t always know what to say.

Last week, the receptionist at the dentist’s office asked.

I replied, “Sometimes.”

Sometimes there’s a clear look of recognition in his eyes. I’ve known it for decades. It’s Dale looking at Norma, or at least, at someone he loves.

Other times there is no recognition that I can discern. During those times, it seems that I could be anyone as I feed him, help him in the bathroom, put him to bed.

Several years ago, he stopped saying my name. Last year, he told our caregiver that I was his “mommy.” Each shift was disorienting, but his looks of recognition reassured me that I was still someone he knew.

Now these, too, are fading. It feels as though I am leaving his sight, his awareness.

The disease has been separating us for years, removing recent experiences, shared history, common language. Whenever I feel unseen by him, the reality of this separation hits especially hard.

More and more, Dale is on a different path and entering a world that I am not a part of.

It is the most painful part of the journey to this point.

Does he know me? I’m not sure. Sometimes.

I hold on to hope that he knows me in ways I may not be able to discern.

Even more, I hold on to hope that he feels known by me.

Each evening when I help him get back in bed, I pull up his covers and say, “I love you, Dale.”

Last night he replied, “I know it.” I told him I was glad.

Even though Dale may not know me in the ways he used to or in ways that I can see, may he know this: that he is loved.

May he always know he is loved.

Moments

When reflecting on Dale’s recent changes, I’ve thought, “Our moments keep getting shorter.”

For most of Dale’s disease, we shared the present. Despite the losses of memory and language, we could be together in the moment. But this is waning now, too. Times of recognition and meaningful exchanges are brief and less frequent.

Our moments keep getting shorter.

Photo: Norma Sessions

When they occur, it is like being surprised by beauty…like looking up and seeing a glorious cloud formation, or a rainbow, or a spectacular sunset. In these moments I am suddenly stopped in my tracks. Fully present. In awe.

Such a moment happened earlier this month, on the evening of our 36th wedding anniversary.

Dale tires easily and goes to bed early. However, he doesn’t always rest easily. Confusion increases. I often see him pointing up toward the corners of the room, saying things I don’t understand. Sometimes my presence seems to disturb rather than comfort him.

When I went in the bedroom that evening, I found him awake and making eye contact with me. I knelt beside the bed so we could be face to face. His eyes were clear and focused. He smiled and said, “You’re pretty!” I thanked him and told him I loved him. He returned the “I love you” but soon his attention was elsewhere. I held his hand and he looked at me again, saying, “You’re pretty!” and then “I love you” in response to my saying it. For some minutes we were together like this. Together in our moments. Connected in love. A precious anniversary gift.

“Sometimes you picture me, I’m walking too far ahead
You’re calling to me, I can’t hear what you’ve said
Then you say, ‘Go slow’, I fall behind
The second hand unwinds.

If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me
Time after time.
If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting
Time after time.”

From Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time,” the song we selected as “ours” and danced to during our wedding reception, June 2, 1985