Episode 5: Happy Anniversary?
Season 1: Surviving Alzheimer's
This is an ongoing series chronicling our experience with Alzheimer’s — previous “episodes” are available to read in chronological order.
Episode 5: Happy Anniversary?
Week 25: We just celebrated our 32nd anniversary. I’ve always made an effort to plan something special around our anniversary. Most years, my plans turned out special and joyful. A few didn’t work out very well — the ebb and flow of a lifetime together, often because of forces beyond our control. This year, we have three nights in Manhattan — another timeshare stay, as I try to squeeze every drop out of that investment that makes no financial sense, but is finally being put to good use — better late than never. I know the time bomb is ticking. Someday we won’t be able to travel together. What I don’t know is when and how that will unfold; I plan to push that envelope.
The highlight of our celebration was seeing Bruce Springsteen on Broadway. I initially balked at the ticket prices, but once I got myself into carpe diem mode, I secured seats right-center mezzanine with a great view of the stage. That night we had an early Mexican dinner, enjoying our pre-show margarita (D likes hers with a Chambord floater). We enjoyed every second of the show. Unlike all of the other Bruce shows I’ve enjoyed, here I had to refrain from singing too loud. D good-naturedly (and appropriately) poked me in the side with her elbow a few times. We walked hand-in-hand the 10 blocks back to the hotel, exhilarated.
The next day, we met our niece for brunch. Last month, while having lunch on the beach, D had given me an idea about a children’s book on Alzheimer’s, and we worked on a rough draft together. It felt like a constructive project for us. Maybe something positive could come from our experience. I knew that the chance of actually publishing the book was slim — neither of us had done anything like this before, but I also felt like the process was good for us both. Our niece worked in publishing, specializing in children’s books, and wanted to hear about our ideas.
We were having a dynamic conversation about our story as our niece and I were volleying ideas back and forth. I suddenly realized that D had gone very quiet. I tried prompting her back into the conversation, but she didn’t seem interested, which didn’t make sense to me because she had always seemed to like the idea of working on this story with me. My brunch turned to stone in my stomach as I was trying to figure out why she got so uncharacteristically disengaged. I felt bad for our niece, but for whatever reason, this wasn’t working for D, so we said goodbye and got on with the rest of our day.
We went downtown to the 9/11 Memorial and Museum — something we both wanted to do. Back in 1984, D and I had taken pictures of each other on top of one of the original Twin Towers — it has always been one of my favorite photos of her.
By the time we got back to our hotel, we realized that we’d had a busy day, so we decided to do what we have enjoyed so many times before when we’ve snuck out for a low-key date night: sit at a fancy bar with cocktails and small plates of something special. We regrouped and walked four blocks to a classic NYC steak house and found two seats at the bar, ordering filet mignon sliders and our favorite cocktails (Lemon Martini for D and an Old Fashion for me).
Everything was perfect, until I started chatting with the woman sitting to my right. I was in carefree mode, having fun, sipping my drink, happy as could be. I tried engaging D in the conversation, but she wanted no part of it — again, unlike her, as my wife had never met a stranger she wasn’t kind to. But there she was next to me, getting very quiet, just like she had done at brunch. The quiet simmered into anger, which was the last thing I was expecting as we were having our anniversary celebration. My heart sank and I realized we should leave before there was an awkward scene.
Sure enough, as soon as we got out the door, it all came crashing down as one of the many ugly heads of this disease monster awoke and began to roar. We’d barely gotten outside of the bar when D snapped at me, “You talked to that other woman about your stupid fucking tomato garden, on our anniversary.”
I didn’t know what to say as the pit in my stomach grew heavier by the minute. As we walked back to our room, in the sweat of a city summer night, steam rising out of the sidewalk grates, D’s anger was boiling. When we got back to the room, she could not calm down. I was shocked as she started hitting me. In the 35 years that we’ve been together, no matter how emotional an argument was, we never hit each other. The whole thing made me sick.
Neither of us slept much. We were exhausted the next morning as I tried to make sense of the bruises on my arm. We quietly took the two-hour train ride home. My head was spinning at the dichotomy of our anniversary celebration — such highs and lows, the full spectrum of all that is good and bad about our relationship, our marriage, our friendship.
Where do we go from here? How do we make this work? What can I do so that something like this doesn’t happen again? What do we even have control over, and what is becoming beyond our control?
In retrospect, I know that I let myself be oblivious at exactly the wrong time. I have since learned the hard way (usually the most effective way to learn a hard lesson) that D feeling excluded from a conversation, or any group dynamic, causes confusion and agitation — and, if not mitigated, unimaginable anger. I don’t know how common this is for other people with Alzheimer’s. I do know that from that point on, I would be painfully aware that at any moment, we could go from solid ground to thin ice. I would learn to be much more sensitive and proactive. But it had to start with me accepting the fact that this is not an emotional reaction that D has control over — it does not respond to logic or rationale or even love.
