The Chronicle Herald (Provincial)
45 years strong
Bond between husband and wife grows ever stronger as they confront dementia together
Fighting back isn’t an option, so he just stands there and takes it. Sporadic punches are a part of Robert French’s day-to-day life. It will pass in a minute, and his wife Susan will forget having hit her husband. When she finally eases up, she goes to the sofa to lie down, as if it never happened. The task of getting her dressed for the day having failed, he goes to the kitchen to make her a toaster strudel for breakfast.
Escaping to the kitchen gives him a break to recall good memories of the past 46 years. This is how he gathers the strength to give her unconditional love and care, even though she cannot do the same for him anymore. He doesn’t see the warmth and gentleness he used to find in Susan’s eyes. Now, especially during one of her aggressive episodes, her eyes appear hollow, as if she’s alienated from the rest of the world.
Robert says that for five years, he and Susan have been facing one of the world’s greatest evils. Dementia.
DEMENTIA'S UGLY GRIP
“You know how to do it, Susan,” Robert says. “Just like this.”
He guides the pen across the Christmas card that she is attempting to sign. They are sitting at the wooden dining table where they sign their cards, the table they bought together 35 years ago at a little furniture store in Pennfield, New Brunswick. Christmas is a month away but, excited by the holiday, they always sign cards and wrap gifts early. Impatient, he showed Susan how to write her name, insisting she could still do it. But when it was her turn, the pen stopped, and a confused look grew on her face. “I don’t, Robert. I don’t.”
At that moment, for the first time, Robert acknowledged that his wife was sick. There had been small signs before, such as leaving her purse in the grocery store and forgetting how to use the gas pedal and brake. He ignored these signs and, for almost a year, told himself this couldn’t be happening. Susan took care of her mother when she had dementia in the 1990s and had feared the disease ever since. His heart broke to think that her worst fear had come true.
Susan always viewed the disease as an inevitable part of aging, convinced she had the gene that can pass on dementia. (The Alzheimer’s Society says dementia is hereditary in only a small number of cases.) When she began to make mistakes or forgot how to do something, she would say, “I’m sorry," or ask, “is there something wrong with me?”
Like Susan, 730,000 other Canadians are affected by dementia. The number of Canadians 65 and older is increasing, and so is the number of people living with dementia.
Robert was the last one in his family to accept her illness. Their two children, Jordan and Serena, first noticed a change in their mom in early 2019. When Serena tried to bring it up, Robert ignored her, and Susan would say, “there’s nothing wrong with me.” One day, Serena worked up the courage for a much-needed talk with her dad. She sat on the living room couch in her parents’ house and asked Robert to sit with her.
“Dad, you must be noticing what’s wrong with Mom,” Serena said. “We want her to be around for a long time, and if we act now there’s medicine we can give her to help.”
She cried throughout the entire conversation. She wanted so badly to be heard, and this was something her dad didn’t want to hear. His bottom lip started to quiver.
ROBERT'S STORY
Robert has lived in Back Bay, a small village about 70 kilometres west of Saint John, N.B., his whole life. Just down the road from the house he lives in now is a two-storey house with white siding and a new metal roof. This is the home that Robert grew up in. It’s in the middle of the Back Bay Loop, where you can see the fishermen’s wharf and smell the strong, salty water. The house has been renovated over the years and doesn’t look quite the same since it was sold out of the family 20 years ago. When Robert was a young boy, there used to be a little shed near the house for animals. His father always kept pigs and cows for the family to eat, and occasionally brought seafood home from the boat he fished on. Robert would pack lobster sandwiches for lunch to bring to school. Shredded lobster meat mixed with mayo, between two slices of white bread.
Robert is the youngest of nine siblings, but he didn’t get to know three of them because they died as infants. He enjoyed growing up constantly surrounded by people. Back Bay is one of those close-knit communities where everyone knows everyone. People stop by unannounced for a chit-chat or to drop off a bag of clams they dug up. Robert found comfort in this; he never liked to be alone. He grew up here, and he wants to die here. He says, “it will always be home.”
He likes to compare himself to a cat with nine lives. Growing up, he was reckless. He’s been run over by a car, a boat, and fallen off a boat. The list goes on. One night when he was 15, he was at the beach on the cusp of sunset. While wading in shallow water to rinse sand off his pants, a boat ran pulled into shore and ran him over, tearing open his back and puncturing a lung. When the recklessness faded, he decided to settle down and start working.
There’s a convenience that comes with being a fisherman living close to the water with a big wharf to dock your boat. Many people in Back Bay make this their career, and there’s good money in it. In 1977, the year he married Susan, Robert bought a 40foot red and white wooden boat and started fishing for lobster and scallops.
Fishing gave meaning to Robert’s life – after his other loves, Susan, and God of course. He puts God at the head of those three loves.
“I don’t know how people make it through things without the Lord,” he says.