I have to admit that I have hesitated to put the following piece online for a while as it is undoubtedly the most personal yet.
I'm also acutely aware that many people are uncomfortable about discussions that touch on relationships between carer and dementia sufferer when that pair are married or life-partners. How does one cope when deep feelings can no longer be expressed in their most intimate forms?
In my case I can also honestly say that, even after 36 years of marriage, Brenda looks as good as ever (she could easily slip into the same clothes she wore when I first met her) in spite of the dementia and that is both a real blessing and a curse.
So, I apologise in advance if any aspects of the piece upsets you but please believe it is an honest record of my feelings. I just wanted to write something that honoured the most important lady in my life, even though she will be completely unaware of its content (in this life, at least).
To return to that question about coping...? You just sigh a very deep sigh, accept that even the best things cannot last forever and continue to appreciate the wonderful view.
This Brenda
This woman, who captured my heart during a forest walk on a warm summer's day so many years ago; who continues to hold that heart though her hands are frail and the memories of that day are now beyond her reach.
These eyes, once cat-like and sensuous, retain their fire though no longer able to reveal to her the faces of loved ones that surround her.
These lips, never made gaudy with artificial colours and gloss, still draw my gaze and stir that same deep longing to caress though now demoted to functional tools for daily rituals.
These hands, once soft and slender, talented and capable, now wring in silent anguish like some modern-day Lady Macbeth at an unrecognised tragedy.
This body, as shapely as when it blossomed into womanhood, still provokes the same passions in me each morning whilst being showered and yet is no longer itself aroused from its own imposed slumber by any touch, no matter how necessarily intimate.
These arms, still strong despite the passing years, once propelled her through water like a fish; held me close when times were rough and bore two boys from infancy to manhood with a mother's miraculous combination of tenderness and resilience.
These legs, slender as ever, have walked many a thousand miles at my side; faithful and supportive; agile and athletic; now defy all encouragement to continue that journey and are reduced to a shuffling parody of their former selves.
This voice, that long ago vowed with me before God and man to become one body and soul, is no longer able to vocalise that commitment and babbles strange words and phrases that confuse and frustrate both her and me.
This forgetting - but not forgotten - hero who was my very own living diary, personal assistant and aide memoire; whose memories are like the walls in an old house covered by layer upon layer of wallpaper slowly being stripped back to reveal a haphazard patchwork of faded hopes and dreams.
This woman. This whole. This angel who has stood by me all our married life still arouses such conflicting feelings of fierce love, dark desire and tender caring and yet remains unaware of the profound effect her presence continues to produce in me - her avowed lifelong companion, soulmate and friend.
This woman.
This wife.
This Brenda.
