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Quiet Dignity
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His name is James Patrick Kelley; he goes by Pat. He turned 52 years old March 5, 1997, in a nursing home in Marshall, Virginia, where he has been a resident for two years. I went to see him today, as I try to as often as possible, and, as usual, it was very difficult to see this man of mine steadily fading away. Oh, there are sometimes a few seconds of recognition, and sometimes I'm almost sure he understands me, but it doesn't last long, and he is once again in the Alzheimer's world, wherever that is. He is lost to me, and my despair is terrible. This quiet, gentle man is dying, and I can do nothing to stop it. All I can do is remember for both of us. Pat and I met in Bonn, Germany, in 1980, when we were both working at the American Embassy. We married the following year in Copenhagen, Denmark. I was drawn to Pat because of his easy-going personality, his warmth, his tendency to smile so easily, his tenderness towards me, the laughter we shared and so much more. I could go on and on. We had many wonderful times together while in Germany. We loved to travel and visited such beautiful places all over Europe. We kept busy with all the functions put on by the American Embassy, meeting new people, and making new friends. We spent a little over four years in Germany, and then Pat received a transfer with the U.S. Army and we came back to the U.S. where he was assigned to the Pentagon in telecommunications. Pat was a SFC (Sergeant First Class) and had over 100 people under his supervision in the year before his retirement, a demanding and challenging job. In 1985, he retired with over 20 years of service. A parade was held for him and other retirees at Ft. Myers, Virginia, and he was so proud, as was his whole family. As I look back, approximately two years later Pat was having problems with small things -- having trouble balancing the checkbook, not as talkative and seemed more withdrawn than he had been, and I noticed he couldn't seem to remember where certain items belonged in the kitchen. I thought it was a "man thing" with the kitchen! I remember one night we were watching television and there was a movie on with Robert Montgomery, who was taking care of his wife who had Alzheimer's. In the end he helped her commit suicide. After the movie had started, Pat got up and went out on the patio. He did not return for the whole movie. He was visibly bothered by the story. I knew he was very concerned about the disease of Alzheimer's because it has been so prevalent in his family. He told me the first night we dated in Germany that Alzheimer's was in his family, but I thought nothing of it. What did I know about Alzheimer's! That happened to older people -- and it couldn't possibly hit us! I found out later that Pat's family, part of the Volga Germans who migrated from Germany to Russia, have been studied throughout the United States at Alzheimer's research centers. And I also learned from Pat's aunt in Oklahoma that out of 14 aunts and uncles, 12 had or have the disease and the other two passed away before diagnosis, but were showing signs. One of them was Pat's mother. In fact, Pat's uncle is the first living person to be "diagnosed" with Alzheimer's. He was 42 and had the disease for 23 years. Pat really started having problems toward the end of 1990 when we began the long, laborious and heart-wrenching road to diagnosis at NIH. He was 46 years old, and three years later he was no longer living at home. While Pat was still at home I admit it was unbelievably hard to care for him. It was a period so fraught with stress that I don't know how any of us going through it survive. But Pat always tried his hardest to help me. He broke down a very few times, admitting he was scared and how unfair it all was, but he did try so hard to be "normal." He kept his sense of humor and he continued to tell me he loved me. However, one night this gentle man's personality completely changed and he became paranoid and violent. That was the last night he spent in his home. As he has deteriorated, the disease has reduced my loving husband to a shell of his former self. He is still Pat because he resembles Pat, but he has gone far, far away. Sometimes he'll laugh at something, but only he knows at what -- or perhaps he doesn't know. He can no longer speak and has not talked to me for approximately two years. His days consist of sitting in a geriatric chair, mostly sleeping. He eats pureed food, is not always able to swallow and has lost 72 pounds in one year. And as if his poor body isn't ravaged enough, he has seizures. Despite everything, he is still my Pat, and there is a quiet dignity to this wonderful man. I look at him and want to wrap my arms around him and protect him. He is so vulnerable and precious. Once not long ago I saw love in Pat's eyes when he looked at me, one of those special times when he focused his eyes on me. I'm hoping he'll know me right up to the end and I pray somehow he'll be aware of how very much I love him. Our time together has been much too short, but I thank God for that time and I am so proud to have been Pat's wife. I will love him through eternity.
by Gail L. Kelley
Editor's Note: In May of 1997, Pat passed away.
Last updated: June 25, 1997
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