And Then There's This... Norma: Collateral Damage
This is the May 25, 2020, excerpt from “Stardust: An Alzheimer's Love Story,” my day to day accounts of caring for my wife Norma in the advanced stages of her dementia.
Norma has fallen. Hard. And I let it happen. I had just helped her into clean pajamas, and in deference to her shaky legs, had put my arm tightly around her waist and walked her from her bathroom to the side of her bed. There's a device with a swing-down gate to keep her from falling out of her bed that slides under her mattress. But the two metal posts that support the gate extend higher than the surface of her mattress, making it hazardous for her to climb in. I let go of her arms and put my hands atop each of the posts to make her getting in easier. That's when her legs gave way and she fell. It wasn't a graceful fall. She simply collapsed backward, hitting the left side of her head on the sharp corner of her bedside dresser and crushing her right side against a heavy overstuffed chair.
She cried out in pain as I tried to pull her up, but I eventually got her standing. I'm not one for self-flagellation, but I couldn't have felt more guilty if I had let a toddler stray out into traffic. Although her head didn't bleed, there was a thumb-size swelling on it, and she said her right side hurt whenever she took a deep breath. Finally, I eased her into bed, getting her pillow just so and asking her to the point of annoyance how she was feeling. I offered her a pain pill and she declined, which was sufficient proof for me that her pain wasn't severe. Once she was settled in, I got her a Coke, supported her back while she sat up and drank it and then pulled her wheelchair up beside her bed to sit with her until she relaxed. Naturally, I cued up Stardust so Willie Nelson could work his melodic wonders — as he always does.
Norma closed her eyes and lay on her back hugging herself — I think to feel her wounded ribs. Then, after a while, she tented her hands on her stomach in what I took to be a posture of contentment. I couldn't tell if she was awake or just drifting, and I didn't want to disturb her by asking. When Willie got to “Blue Skies,” the third song on the album, she began humming along, almost absent-mindedly but increasingly in harmony with the record. That's when I lost it emotionally. I am so afraid of losing her, and this time I realized how close it came to happening. To hear the music flow out of her so tenderly was more than my tear ducts could take. Better yet, she continued humming through “All of Me,” still with her eyes closed and her left forefinger weakly tapping out a rhythm. She looked serene, and I imagined her twirling nimbly in a bright corner of her mind that she alone visits.
