True Love

In a culture that epitomizes youth with true love, I am struck again and again with the reality that true love between a husband and wife; deep, enduring, committed love that lasts, comes only after many years of facing life together. That realization hit me again yesterday as I watched my parents. Dad is unable to do much for himself, let alone care for Mom in any tangible way, yet she affectionately and tenderly greets him with, “How are you today, my love?” He vacillates between tenderness toward her and irritability at her. The rapid mood swings are part of the disease. One minute he will clench his teeth and shout angrily at her, often when he doesn’t understand some instruction, and the next minute he will be asking to kiss her on the cheek. It doesn’t seem to phase her; she calmly accepts it in stride as part of the horrid illness. She is one of the most gentle and patient individuals I have ever met.
Less than a month ago, the nursing home hosted a Valentine’s Day Dinner for residents and their spouses. The small dining room held less than a dozen round tables bedecked with red tablecloths, vases of fresh flowers and long-stemmed goblets. Each couple dined together as the piano played romantic songs from yesteryear. Dad was a mess that day. He needed help feeding himself. He couldn’t get the fork from his plate to his mouth and back down again without her hand guiding his arm. He set his glass awkwardly on the edge of his plate as Mom grabbed it to set it aright and keep from spilling the remaining beverage. He didn’t speak more than a few sentences the entire time.
Looking around, I saw residents in various stages of decline and ill health; I could hardly keep my emotions in check. What I observed was “fleshing out” the marriage vows of “til death do us part.” One resident’s husband had delivered a dozen red roses to his bride. The husband was wearing a 3-piece suit for this “date” with his wife who was too ill to even communicate with him. And on his face, he wore a contented smile as he maneuvered her wheelchair back to her room. These couples were just happy to be together. As I pushed Dad’s wheelchair back to his wing, my tears flowed as he reached for Mom who was walking beside his wheelchair and they moved hand in hand down the hallway.
On a recent day, I sat silent as I observed their interaction:
Dear Dad, in his state of confusion, quietly held Mom’s hand and asked her directly, “Where are you living at now, honey?”
“At home,” was the reply.
After a few seconds, Dad inquired, “And where is home?”
I watched her eyes as she paused and studied at the face of her beloved, her home had been wherever he was for so many years; location didn’t matter. What was she to say? She gave an address, “Near White Horse.”
That simple answer satisfied him, but broke my heart. Does that mean that their lifetime of shared memories is gone from his mind? He doesn’t know where his home is, but he knows that he feels at home--safe, secure and loved--with her. That’s all that matters.