Help Me
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Friday, May 18, 2007
Almost 6 Years Since the Diagnosis of Alzheimer's Disease
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Bob is lying on his side on the bed. “I’m scared,” he says. “Help me.”
I take his hand. “How can I help you, Bobby? What can I do for you?”
Out from the fog of Alzheimer’s comes his agonized plea, "Make me alive again.”
He starts to cry. So do I.
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The roof is caving in, the walls are buckling, the entire structure of his life is crumbing, being reduced bit by bit to rubble. He is gradually forgetting everyone and everything he has ever known. He is dreadfully and permanently confused. He is lost. He knows something has gone terribly wrong.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he says.
I struggle to find words that offer something he can hang onto. So I say researchers are working hard to find a treatment. And I tell him the two pills he takes every day for the illness are helping (only a little, but I don't say that).
He looks at me, and I can see him trying to parse those words for some small shred of hope. I don’t think he finds hope, but he does find something, comfort perhaps, and connection.
Looking into my eyes, he says, "I love you."
"I love you, too, Bobby, I love you forever."
He asks, "Will you be with me?"
"Yes, I’ll be with you."
Over and over I stroke his hair, as if by simply stroking I can somehow heal his damaged brain.
*******
MAKE ME ALIVE AGAIN!
The words pierce, they sting, they linger ... a sad and lonesome echo in my heart.
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MAKE ME ALIVE AGAIN!
With all my being, if I could, I would. But I can’t. No one can. We are all helpless in the face of this illness.
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All that’s left is love. Perhaps, in the end, it will have been enough.
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