As I sat in church yesterday morning I noticed the elderly man sitting directly in front of me was continually hugging his wife, patting her back and kissing the top of her disheveled hair. The overt attention seemed a bit out of place yet somehow endearing at the same time. 

As we had our usual "meet and greet" time--shaking hands with those seated around us in the sanctuary--I saw the unmistakable  vacant look on the wife's face.  

I knew that look, in a split second it pierced my soul and took my heart back to that place and time when I cared for my dear Erica.

We'd first met at a bereavement group I facilitated.  Erica was a wee lady in stature (4' 10") but her lion's spirit was very apparent even from the start.  She'd been widowed twice and was never able to have children.   Erica was alone in this world, very alone.

We instantly bonded and I became like the daughter she had always desperately desired but could not have.  We shared poetry and music and just "being".  

Erica was quirky and secretive about much of her past--very private, very much the dignified lady at all times. She always said she needed me more than I did her, but I knew nothing could have been further from the truth.

One day as we sat listening to music she asked if I would take care of her when she could no longer take care of herself.  I immediately agreed to do so, very much aware of the honor she had just bestowed on me. 

For years after that conversation we enjoyed each other's company, contentedly sharing our life together.  Until the day I allowed myself to acknowledge that something had changed in Erica. This very rational, highly intelligent woman was beginning to say some pretty unusual things followed by some pretty unusual actions.

Per her request, I accompanied her to the doctor's office where we heard the diagnosis together.  Erica had dementia. There were no words to share. The only sound in the room was of 2 broken still somehow beating hearts.  Our eyes met, neither wanted to shed a tear trying to spare the feelings of the other.  So we swallowed silent, grief-filled tears.

Our journey through dementia lasted a little over 7 years and was filled with many memories that still deeply resonate in my heart. We struggled with each new phase. We laughed a lot. We got angry. We cried out loud. We loved fiercely.  We prayed together.  Even at the end of her life and when all else had been forgotten, Erica still prayed with the fervency and intimacy she had since I first met her.

She eventually forgot who I was and at times I became her: neighbor, friend from church or non-existent sister.  As Erica spoke of having lunch with her brother who had died 20 years earlier--her serene countenance revealed what I thought I already knew.

She was finally at peace.  I was the one left behind to live in the reality of  the life Erica no longer knew or had or cared anything about.  Though it was excruciatingly hard to bear at times, I could never leave her behind.  I could not break my promise to take care of her when she could no longer take care of herself.

In the end I was with her and in the last gaze we shared I saw an inkling--a mere flickering ghost of recognition then a faint, serene smile that said: "I know you.  I love you. Thank you. I'll be waiting for you".

Shepherdess Blog
Copyright 2018
Jackie  Deems 




Will you still remember me,
when I no longer remember you?
Will you recall the words I said,
those things we used to do?

When I no longer know your name,
or recognize your face-
will love step in and rescue me,
or will sadness fill that space?

Will times we shared be in the past,
replaced by here. by now?
I long so much to change what is,
if only I knew how.

When darkness falls and night is near,
our love won't be erased.
Dear one please know deep in my soul,
no one can take your place.

Jackie Deems
Copyright 2018