The heartbreak of saying goodbye again and again
The account of Wendy Mitchell’s journey through Alzheimer’s disease (Mail) touched me, as I nursed my husband Ian for eight years until he died of this terrible illness. It is soul destroying that there is not the faintest glimmer of hope. It all started early one morning when I realised Ian wasn’t in bed beside me: he was outside trying to use the wrong key to open the garage. I gently persuaded him to come back inside and he came like a lamb, but my stomach was doing somersaults as I realised the time had come to talk to our doctor about what had worried me for months. We were enjoying our retirement surrounded by our three children and ten grandchildren. Ian had been born in goa and was the first Asian magistrate on Teesside, but I noticed his memory was fading and he was becoming easily confused, misplacing his glasses and keys, and putting things in the wrong cupboards. Ian was sent for hospital tests and had a CT scan. The following day we were given the devastating news that he had Alzheimer’s. That was the first goodbye. After driving for 40 years without an accident, I had to remove his car key. That was the second goodbye. he moved into the spare room so that we could both get some rest and I found myself sleeping on my own for the first time in almost 50 years. That was the third goodbye. Ian had always enjoyed reading, and we continued to visit the library together, but I noticed that his bookmark was always in the same place. That was the fourth goodbye. Before, Ian had a lively mind and was only happy when he had a
project on the go. he loved woodwork and made little tables and chairs for our grandchildren. But the day came when he could no longer understand how to get into the passenger seat of the car. Then I could no longer get him to walk down the stairs unaided. I realised Ian was essentially housebound — another goodbye. There was a dip in his health and he needed 24-hour care. Most of the carers were lovely, but I did have the occasional brush with one or two who would gossip over Ian’s head as if he wasn’t there or, worse still, talk to him as if he were a baby. After I rang the agency to complain, I managed to get a team of lovely carers. What I missed most were the stimulating conversations and jokes we used to share. Ian was beginning to lose his words, and it was so painful to see his lively personality disintegrating. At our golden wedding, we had a cheese and wine celebration. Ian was by then in a wheelchair, but he managed to greet all the guests and join in some of the songs, especially the ones from our courting days in the Fifties. he began having seizures and had a blank expression. he was getting physically frail, but still enjoyed music. One day, I heard a cry from Ian and found him with tears rolling down his face. he had been listening to speed Your Journey from the opera Nabucco. It had been one of his favourites and I believe he had momentarily become aware of the wretchedness of his condition. I hugged him and reassured him that I was with him. he started to refuse food and had difficulty swallowing liquids. The parish priest gave him the last rites and the doctor from the hospice told me gently that his system was closing down. I slept fitfully next to Ian all night and in the morning I washed and shaved him as usual, and he slept quietly. I was at his bedside holding his hand when he took his last breath. The nurse left the room as I took his poor broken body into my arms and said my final goodbye and thanked God for our 52 years together. I felt it had been a death not by a thousand cuts, but by a thousand subtractions. I miss Ian so much, but I try to keep afloat in a sea of grief.