74 to 84

He’s 74 if we’re counting years and he’s 10 years older than that according to his bone marrow transplant doctor. That’s what a transplant can do, it can save your life and add years to it.

For his birthday he’s going to the Mayo Clinic for treatment and appointments and the truth is that this is a happy birthday. Let’s be honest, living with someone with Alzheimer’s is a constant demanding task. He gets a break from that as he takes the long drive with a friend, and stays away for a night.

She was upset that he was going and no one told her, she always believes no one told her but it’s her mind that left it behind. No one is leaving her behind but she cannot believe that so we struggle through it.

He makes jokes to try to change her mood and sometimes it works but it’s rare. He keeps trying. His whole life, he’s kept going, trying. That’s what a life is, right? A life well lived is one whose human takes one small step at a time. These days his steps are extra small, his body weakened, his head fuzzy and dizzy, often forcing him into double vision. But he keeps getting up to walk.

I said, Maybe you should take the walker (not just the cane) and he was all, No, I’m good while he grabbed the counter to steady himself. Then he laughs.

He said thank you for everything as we said goodbye and I whispered Happy Birthday, while mom was out of earshot. It was upsetting to her, over and over, that it was his birthday and no one told her. I never know the date, she said. Then when he left she said she doesn’t know what to get him. I suggested things. To her, they were all bad ideas. Everything we say is a bad idea (unless we suggest going out to eat). We’ve gotten used to that.

Sometimes you just have to go quiet and write on your laptop, fielding questions about why the Golden Girls would be celebrating Christmas when it’s not Christmas. Over and over. It’s just a re-run, mom. It’s an old show, sometimes they replay them at times that don’t line up with our current season.

But WHY?

I don’t know, mom. But it’s a funny show, isn’t it?

I can’t believe he doesn’t tell me anything, she keeps saying. Her brow is furrowed and she looks extra tired. She’s sad, I can feel it. Of course she is, nothing makes sense and it constantly feels like people you love and once trusted are lying or keeping secrets.

And we are. There is no other way to keep her calm.

It’s okay, mom. He’ll be back tonight.

But he won’t, he’ll be back tomorrow but I say it to calm her; she won’t remember in a minute anyway.

Our steps are even smaller than his, our birthday guy. One second at a time to his one minute at a time, and here we are, we keep going.

I learned it from watching him.

Sooner or later you get a reprieve. She dozes off in his chair this time, her mouth drooping, wearing the same shirt she’s been wearing for days, having refused all of our suggestions of other (clean) options.

She loves him. She has always loved him. She will always love him, no matter how hard she is on him now. And he knows it, I know he does. I’m grateful he’s off and away, like he’s going to a party, free in the sunshine on a drive.