'Do you know who I am?'
This segment originally aired on Sept. 24, 2017.
By Pauline Buck
It happened ... the day I'd been dreading.
My husband Bill and I were driving down our street after being out for an hour. Bill said, "That's our place there, on the right." Rather dryly, I responded, "Yes, I know. I've been there many times."
"You have?" he asked.
At that point I turned to look at him directly to see if he was kidding me, and he wasn't. His face was straight and serious.
"Do you know who I am?" I asked.
"No," he said. "Who are you?"
I can't describe how I felt at that moment. Panic-stricken, I guess. Friends had been asking if Bill still recognized me, and I had been shrugging it off, with a quick "of course." Now it was as if I had been punched in the stomach. Is there such a thing as sudden grief?
It was two years since his diagnosis.
We had a caseworker from Fraser Health. Bill went to adult daycare Wednesdays and Fridays. A PSW came in twice a week, and we made regular visits to the doctor for memory tests. The dosage of Bill's meds were increased every few months. But, he really didn't have full blown dementia, I thought. He was just having a bad day ... a lot of bad days.
"His confusion will all go away as soon as I retire at the end of the year," I kept telling myself, "and we'll have lots of fun again."
As we pulled up to the house that fateful day, I decided to resort to one of my two regular defence mechanisms: humour and faking it. I chose faking it.
We came in and unloaded the groceries as if nothing was wrong. Because it was a wet and chilly day, I put on the fireplace and we sat down at the table in the living room to work on our jigsaw puzzle.
After a few minutes of silence, Bill said, "You're a very nice person." I nodded a sort of thank you. Then he picked up the TV clicker and tried to dial out with it.
"Who are you trying to phone?"
"Pauline," Bill said. "It's not like her to not call on her way home."
Now I was really in a panic. I finally said, "I am Pauline, your wife. We've been married for 22 years."
After dinner, Bill started again, saying he really loved his wife and if it weren't for her, he would be quite interested in me because I was so nice. But he wanted me to know that we could never have anything together because he was happily married.
Realizing it was almost bedtime, a wave of fear washed over me. If he doesn't think I'm his wife, and he's so faithful to her (I did smile to myself at that thought), then where are we going to sleep?
In the bathroom, I got out the vitamins I take at night.
"Pauline has a little holder just like that for her vitamins, too." My desperate response was an interested-sounding, "Oh, yes."
I didn't want to upset him.
So, I stayed as normal as possible, got into my pyjamas and threw my clothes into the laundry basket in the closet, as I always did.
Bill said, "Pauline does all our laundry. She'll wonder about those clothes in there."
"Oh, I'm sure she'll be fine with it," I said.
The actual showdown came when I got into the bed. He stood in the middle of the room and asked what I was doing. I said I was going to sleep, to which he replied, "But you can't sleep there. That's my wife's place."
I took a big gamble and said, "I know you don't understand this, because you have a disease in your brain and you can't help it, but I am your wife. I am Pauline. If you don't want to sleep with me, you can go sleep in the spare room. I don't plan to give up my bed."
After a moment's pause, Bill said "Oh," and came to bed quietly.
The next day nothing more was said on the subject. My daughter Dianne and her husband came over for coffee. During their visit, I noticed Bill was very quiet. I don't think he said a word, but at least he didn't ask them who they were. And when they were gone, he commented about something Dianne had said, mentioning her by name. That was a relief.
And me? I didn't know who I was that day. And I was afraid to ask.
Today I know who I am. At least, I know what my name is. But that fateful question to Bill keeps coming back to haunt me. "Do you know who I am?" Only now, the question has become, "Do I know who I am?"
In five short years, I went from fun-loving wife to concerned caregiver to widow.
It's been over three years since Alzheimer's Disease stole my husband completely. I have gone through the motions of moving on — sold the house, purchased a lovely townhome, developed new friendships and joined some volunteer groups.
But at 70, in the midst of all that busyness, who am I?
Fortunately, these days, 70 is still pretty young. There's time to reimagine myself and discover my next identity.
Who am I? I'm not totally sure yet. It's hard work figuring it out. I will. Eventually. But soon would be good.
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