For Me it is Unfinished...

Pam has been gone a little more than two years. Yet there is one question that still haunts me.  Intellectually, I know it shouldn't. But emotionally, it does.  I know that I took good care of her for three years. But did she think so?  I know, I know. Her brain was not functioning normally. She may not have understood. She may not even have been aware. But the question haunts me nonetheless. I often wonder if this feeling stems from what I now think of as "the shirt incident."

Pam was always very particular about her appearance. I assumed that came from working in retail. She
regularly had her hair and nails done professionally, and she was an impeccable dresser. She was also very
private when it came to getting dressed.  As the symptoms progressed, it became more and more difficult to help her get dressed in the morning or changed into her pajamas at night. Whenever I helped her change clothes, I would often reassure her by saying, "I won't peek."

One evening, she was more resistant than usual about changing into her pajamas. Every attempt to remove
her shirt was met with determined resistance. Out of frustration, I warned her that if she would not let me
remove it, I would have to cut it off.  She continued to resist.  I picked up a pair of scissors and cut the shirt off.  The moment I did it, I was overwhelmed with guilt. After I had gotten her changed and tucked into bed, I immediately went online and ordered her two new shirts. The next day I told our hired caregiver what had happened. She gently reminded me that a memory care facility would have done exactly the same thing.  It didn't matter.  I never did anything like that again. To this day, whenever I think about that evening, the guilt comes rushing back.

For quite a while, Pam talked about there being two Bruce's—the good one and the other one. My daughter and I eventually realized that, depending on my mood, I was either the good Bruce or the other Bruce.  During her final year, she often referred to me in the third person. That was a good indication that she no longer really knew who I was. Yet there were still glimmers of recognition.  One day, while we were dancing to Johnny Mathis and her sister was filming us, Pam looked over at her with a broad grin. For just a moment, she seemed to understand exactly what was happening. Even now, that video brings tears to my eyes.

A few hours before she passed away, Pam opened her eyes, looked directly at me, and puckered her lips for our last kiss.  Was she aware of the care I gave her? Did she know how deeply I loved her? Did she understand that everything I did—even my mistakes—came from trying to keep her safe and comfortable?  Those are questions I will never be able to answer.

The truth is, it no longer matters to anyone but me. Her care is finished. Her suffering is over. The past
cannot be changed.  And yet, the question remains.  For everyone else, it is history.  For me, it is still unfinished.