By Paul Rousseau
It is eight o’clock in the morning. Betty is exhausted and careworn, her eyes weary, her mouth thin and grimaced. She was awake most of the night tending to her husband, Tom. She gestures to follow her as she moves Tom to the kitchen table and secures him in a wheelchair. He glares at her and bellows, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m your wife, Betty. We’ve been married sixty-two years. Don’t you remember?”
He pivots toward me. “Who the hell are you?” I tell him I am his doctor. “Get out of here,” he shouts, “I don’t need a doctor.” His arms flail fitfully as he wriggles in his wheelchair. Then, he abruptly quiets and cocks his head like a bird listening for a worm. “What is that?”
Betty moves to his side. “I don’t hear…”
“Who the hell are you?” His eyes flare feral as he slices the air with hands clenched. He strikes at Betty. She stumbles dodging his fist. A clump of errant hair drops to her face; she begins to fall. I scramble and grab her arm. I notice several bruises. He reaches for her dress. I pull her away, but he catches my arm. I struggle to wrench his fingers loose. Despite a twenty-pound weight loss the past year, he is still formidable.
“He’s like this on his bad days,” she mutters. “But on his good days, he’s my old Tom.” I suspect he does not have many good days; his physical and cognitive abilities are rapidly declining.
He pummels the kitchen table, screaming. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m your wife, Betty,” she says. I notice a glint of tears in her eyes. “I just wish he could remember me.” The reciprocity in their relationship has vanished; she is just another nameless person. Nevertheless, she reminds him that she is his wife, constantly. It is a habit of hope and a grieving of the past.
I heave a deep breath. I am concerned about Betty’s welfare. She cannot continue the grueling labor of caring for Tom. She is alone, and her finances depleted. But even more important, Tom’s behavior is increasingly violent. I cautiously broach the subject of long-term care. Her body stiffens.
“He will never go to a nursing home,” she says. “Never.”
She stands and motions toward the door. She is visibly upset. I apologize if I slighted her. “Thank you for coming,” she says. Her words are sincere, her tone dismissive. I step onto the porch, shoulders slumped, head bowed.
Caregiving is a grim loneliness.