"Hard" is a Relative Term

     So often in the last few months of Bob's life someone commented to me about how hard things must be, and I guess they were.  But they are much harder now.  What made it easier then was that he was here with me; we were sharing each other's struggles and sadness about the effects of Alzheimer's disease on both of us.  And that made a huge difference, still sharing everything.  We also still spent our life together.  Still enjoyed sunsets and moon rises over the mountains, and the walks we took in the park or woods.  We still held hands, still shared our morning coffee, still hugged and kissed every morning and every night.  We could still enjoy time with Esperanza and our grand kids, still laugh together at their antics, and delight in their newfound abilities.  We were still a couple and felt each other's loving presence in so many unspoken ways.  Now, in the absence of sharing, this season is so much harder than all the hard days and nights of his illness.

"First Hike"

     There have already been many "firsts" without Bob's presence, and today was another one.  It was my first time to hike again the trail that became one of our favorites because it was close to town yet on a mountainside.  The last time we hiked that trail, over a year ago, Bob fell twice.  After that, I was afraid to take him on any mountain hikes unless they were on wide (two-track) paths with no chance of falling over the edge.  This morning, Esperanza invited me to join her on it.  It felt good to be there again and brought back many happy memories of hiking it with Bob, and also with her and the grand kids along a couple of times.  It also felt good to exert myself so much again.  It's been a long time since I've been able to challenge myself as much; I had scaled back to whatever worked for Bob.

Looking Back after Two Weeks

     Today is July 12, 2017. Two weeks ago yesterday, I lost my best friend, beloved companion and partner, my husband, my Bob. The last two weeks of his life (June 12-27, 2017) he spent at Taos Retirement Village Medical Center.  He walked in there with me, intending to stay 5 days to give me a respite.  But Alzheimer's disease had other plans and began intensifying its grip, disabling him more each day.  To save money, I briefly considered taking him to a VA-contracted facility in Albuquerque, but am so grateful I decided against that.  I wanted to keep him here, as close to home, to Esperanza and the kids, and to our friends as possible.  I am so grateful I made that decision.
     During those last weeks, he was able to enjoy visits from friends—Donna and Steve, Janice, Rose (who spent the bulk of two different days with him), Kathleen and Genny.  Because he was here, he also had visits with Esperanza and the kids who colored pictures for him and gave him hugs and kisses and told him they loved him.  And because he was in the nursing center, I was able to focus again on being his wife and best friend.  We were able to share quiet evening walks, to attend an opera performance on the Village grounds, to listen to music, and even to dance one more time when a local folk music group performed at the Center.  One evening I played the piano and sang for him. While he was still eating, we shared meals at a “table for two.”  As he drifted off to sleep at night, I could sit and hold his hand, sometimes I would also sing to him. More than once, we had a whole day of just being together, enjoying each other's company while listening to our favorite CD's.  In a very real way, the Nursing Center became “our home” for those two weeks.  We were surrounded by love and care, and we were able just to “be” together.  We were “at home” with each other to the end.