How I Discovered Love In A Shoelace

I’m waiting for Alan to get dressed. It’s the first day of autumn, and we’re taking a day trip to the mountains. He finally appears, calmly proclaims he can’t tie his shoes, would I do it for him? He’s had difficulty dressing himself lately. This morning he was able to pull on his socks and pants, button his shirt, and pull a sweater vest over his head, all by himself.

Alan and I have been married for three years. I’m 57 years old, and he’s 65. He has Alzheimer’s disease. He was diagnosed two years ago, nine months after we recited our wedding vows. It’s the second marriage for both of us, but this bond between us is fierce. With wet eyes, envious friends have told us this kind of love is rare, that we live in a dreamy fairy tale. We think it’s enchanting and perfect.

This Alzheimer’s disease, the thief, takes its time fracturing our union. No one and nothing but this wretched disorder pulls us asunder.

Since the diagnosis, there’s been a significant, progressive decline in Alan’s cognitive functions, his balance, and motor skills. His thought processes, reasoning, memory, attention, language, and problem-solving capabilities come and go, mostly go.

It wasn’t long after his diagnosis that he needed frequent help and some supervision to do most of what he could do independently before.

Today we’ll drive to our favorite mountain town, and we’ll promenade along the riverwalk, for this is the extent of Alan’s dwindling capabilities. No more off-trail or dirt path hiking. We stick to boardwalks and paved pedestrian routes.

We’ll walk upriver holding hands the entire time, like we always do, staggering toward the future. We’ll take in the crisp, dry air and watch the wind rustle through the pine and aspen trees.

We’ll visit the stationery store where we’ll buy journals that have fancy leather covers and pages edged in gilt. We’ll carry them close to our hearts while we amble downriver to our favorite coffee shop. Then we’ll sit at a black wrought iron bistro table on the outdoor patio, listen to the moving water, watch passersby as we sip chai and munch hazelnut biscotti.

We’ll transfer the pain of losing each other onto the lined acid-free pages of our new books, trusting the journals and the rushing river to catch our words and emotions and assimilate them into our souls, somehow making sense of it.

At dinnertime, we’ll saunter upriver to our favorite Italian restaurant where we’ll have a glass of Chianti and a bowl of bow-tie pasta with basil pesto.

As dusk comes, we’ll follow the river down to a wooden bench under a stand of aspen trees, the perfect vantage point to watch the deer that come down from the forested hills for an evening snack, unfazed by our presence on the other side of the water.

Once more tonight we’ll inhale the fresh pine scent in the air and let the wetness of the river permeate through to our bones. We’ll eagerly succumb to the enchantment of this place as we watch the water negotiate the ancient granite rocks that have been part of the river for thousands of years, and we’ll wonder how many more it’ll take before the march of the river erodes them to dust.

Then finally we’ll drive home, snaking down the mountains and foothills, on the lookout for feeding elk and perhaps a herd of mountain goats.

We’ll smell the heady wood smoke rising from nearby chimneys and hold hands that much tighter, present in each other.

At home, we’ll speak softly of life’s mysteries and how lucky we are to have found each other. Then we’ll fall asleep in each other’s arms, dreaming the same dream of floating downriver, wishing it could always be this sweet for us, wishing the thief had knocked on someone else’s door.