Tonight, I am bringing my ex-husband to work with me.
New tenants are moving into a rental home tomorrow morning. I manage that home and have a few things to finish up.
“Would you like to go to the rental home with me tonight or would you like to stay at home?”
“I want to go with you,” Mike says eagerly, his eyes sparkling with anticipation, like a three year old.
A couple of years ago, Mike was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. Lately, his decline seems to be accelerating.
I ask him to bring a new roll of paper towels to the kitchen. He comes back with a spray bottle and a roll of toilet paper. I ask again. This time, he returns carrying a box of Kleenex.
I make him a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. A few minutes later, I find my two dogs happily eating it. “I don’t know how it ended up there,” Mike says quietly.
I can feel frustration rising in my chest like a volcano ready to erupt.
People say Alzheimer’s symptoms often worsen in the evening. They call it “sundowning.” I’ve always wondered who chose that name. A sundown is supposed to be beautiful.
The home is located near the coast. We drive along highway 101 passing a lake.
Years ago, we rented a jet ski on that lake. Mike and I loved riding the jet ski. I wrapped my arms around his waist and off we went, racing through the waves, water splashing on our faces, as we laughed into the wind.
We arrive at the rental home. I get out of the car and walk around to Mike’s side. Sometimes he forgets how to unbuckle his seatbelt.
There is a long set of stairs at the entrance leading to the second floor. Mike looks up, and then looks at me. “Let’s do it together!”
I put my arm through his. One step, then another, we slowly go up. The ocean is right in front of us.
Mike and I are standing together on the balcony. The sun is sinking toward the ocean. The sky is changing. The city lights are beginning to flicker on. Everything feels still, peaceful.
I look at Mike. “Isn’t that a beautiful sunset?”
And suddenly I think about that word again. Sundowning. For so long, sundown meant something different at my home. Tonight it is just that, as we enjoy a few quiet minutes when Alzheimer’s demands nothing from either of us.
In that moment, I make three wishes.
I wish for a miracle that will give Mike back the vitality Alzheimer’s stole from him.
I wish for more patience and strength to carry us through the hard days.
I wish for many more days of walking arm in arm.
On our way home, Mike reaches over and puts his hand on mine. His eyes still sparkle with the kindness and intelligence I have known for so many years.
“Do you know how important you are to me?” he asks.
I turn and gaze into his eyes, fighting back the tears welling in my own, and squeeze his hand tightly.
