My Husband Has Alzheimer's

I've vowed not to become the disease's second victim

Ruth Crawford Lindsey

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When the neurologist told me in 1984 that my husband, Jack, had Alzheimer's disease, I felt as though I was suffocating. Oh, God, no, my heart pounded. Please, not that.

Over the previous year, Jack had been having trouble following instructions at work. A professional printer with more than twenty-five years experience at layout, he no longer could handle stressful deadlines. His foreman had reassigned him twice to easier jobs. Finding his time card was a daily challenge. Sometimes Jack punched someone else's card, much to that employee's consternation. Then, after a near-fatal bout with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever in the summer, his personality changed. He didn't want me out of his sight; he kept asking the same questions over and over; he became careless with his appearance and had to be urged even to take a bath.

Jack was fifty-five; I was seven years younger. We'd been married only five years. After serving thirteen years as a single missionary-teacher in Brazil, I'd thought I'd remain unmarried the rest of my life. Then I met Jack, who fell in love with me at first sight, he said. I loved being married—but Jack's diagnosis shattered my dreams of having a companion with whom I could share my life.

Along with others, I prayed earnestly for Jack's healing. Repeatedly I quoted Genesis 18:14, "Is anything too hard for the Lord?" I recited Psalm 103:2-3: "Praise the Lord, O my soul … who heals all your diseases." But when I finally became quiet before the Lord, he spoke to my spirit: Don't be afraid. Trust me. My grace will always be greater than your need.

Like persistent termites, the disease silently devoured Jack's short-term memory, coordination, and judgment. He became my shadow, not allowing me even five minutes of privacy in the bathroom.

I began attending meetings of an Alzheimer's support group. At first, my participation in the meetings was minimal. I hesitated to publicize what was happening at our house. Soon, however, I learned talking about it was therapeutic. People in the group were at different stages in the journey. Some were caring for family members at home; others had been forced to place their loved one in a nursing home. I silently prayed I could continue taking care of Jack at home.

About five years after the diagnosis, changes in Jack's condition accelerated. He became agitated and angry for no apparent cause. I couldn't reason with him. He accused me of infidelity and threatened revenge. Although I knew in my heart this wasn't the "real Jack," his words hurt. I cried, but my crying just made matters worse.

The nights were more difficult than the days. Because Jack couldn't sleep, neither could I. He paced constantly. Sometimes he left the house scantily clothed; once he exited naked.

There were other evidences, too, of his deterioration. He forgot how to tie his shoes. He became incapable of shaving, bathing, and brushing his teeth. Eventually he became incontinent. By mid-1989, Jack required around-the-clock care. For the past four years, he has been totally dependent on others, even for spoonfeeding. When I finally had to admit him to a nursing home, my heart broke. He didn't understand why we had to be separated.

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Originally published in: Today's Christian Woman, 1996, September/October, Vol. 18, Issue 5, Page 46

Related Topics:
Alzheimers, Caring, Disease, God, grace of, Spouse

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