A Loss for Words

My sister-in-law Bette is freefalling into the unreachable abyss of mixed dementia.

Her husband, Jerry, (my husband’s brother) is bravely handling every aspect of the activities of daily living she can no longer attend to with extraordinary patience and loving attention.  She is at home and in hospice care.

It has been a steep and precipitous decline over months, not years.  No one can predict what “route” a person’s “journey” with dementia will take.  Hers has been painfully clear.

I choose to remember some special things about Bette now. 

For example, my Dad had celiac disease and had to watch his diet carefully. The first time she met him, she brought over a big plate of white meat turkey (his favorite) for him to enjoy. 

We also spent time together enjoying Tucson architectural history and preservation tours.  Each one focused on a different area of town—the Barrio Historico and the upscale Miramonte neighborhood near Reid Park.  We walked from designated house to house—each with a different character and design appeal—and, between houses, chatted and laughed about our lives and our respective spouses.

Finally, when she and Jerry moved into their last house, I knew Bette wasn’t fond of putting a kitchen together—lining shelves, organizing cabinets, putting plates, glasses and silverware in place—so I offered to handle that task.  I could see how relieved she was that it was done. 

Now, Bette is at a loss for words—not because she doesn’t have them—but because she is no longer able to utter them so they can be deciphered or heard. 

Her memory and essence may be disappearing, but memories of her will remain.