Staying Power

There is nothing like the staying power found in old friends or spouses. They understand who you are, where you come from, why you act the way you do, and are familiar with all your foibles. They still love you. They know of your dreams and believe that you could pull them off if conditions were just right. They see you at your worst, even your most shocking. But because they have known you for so long, they don't throw in the towel, don't think you're losing it. There are many years of knowledge about you against which to measure your current idiosyncracies. And they stay on, if not appreciating your behavior, at least understanding it.

Before I left New York earlier in the month, I went to visit two doctors who are married to one another. He is a physician and she is an academic. Bill is 86 years old and Margaret is close to 88. She has advanced Alzheimer's and doesn't speak any longer. Her eye contact is good, and she reached to hug me when Bill opened the door of their apartment in an independent senior facility. She beamed at me while Bill and I carried on a conversation. I couldn't tell what she could take in for the most part. At one point, he complained that she wouldn't eat much dinner. There sat Margaret, covering her eyes, her hands fluttering across her face in the manner of a five-year-old child playing hide-and-seek. "Margaret," I asked loudly, "Are you in trouble because you don't eat?" She nodded, grinning widely. "Oh dear," I lamented. Again, she moved her hands over her eyes. Her wig was askew and hung rakishly toward one ear.
Bill sat back in his easy chair and waved his hand to get my attention. "She doesn't know a light switch from a doorknob" he whispered. Margaret registered no sign of having understood what he said. She smiled warmly at him. It was clear that she trusted and loved him, even if she couldn't understand what was going on around her.
We all sat in the livingroom as I chatted with Bill. As we wrapped up our conversation, I said how much I had looked forward to visiting with them because they were such important role models to me when I was much younger. I directed that comment toward Margaret. "Especially you," I told her. She cocked her head to one side and made a clucking noise as if to say, "Oh, that's too kind of you." When I left she gave me a bear hug--much more demonstrative than her stiff, reserved, lucid personage would ever have done. Bill shook my hand.

I have thought of these dear people several times over the last two weeks. Margaret was the organist at our church and Bill made sure the bills were paid so we had lights and heat. Margaret's playing was atrocious. Bill's comments from the pulpit were formal and opinionated. But I looked up to them. Margaret was the only woman I knew who had a PhD. I wanted to be like her. This couple never had children, so it was just them. But she always had a shy smile and they were a sure thing--always there, pitching in with whatever responsibilities needed to be taken on.
Now they're facing the sunset years of their lives together. Bill wouldn't think of anyone else taking care of Margaret. He dresses her, fights her wig onto her head and makes her take a bath. She follows him around like a lamb, smiling, agreeable. He knew her for many, many years as an intelligent, strong-willed, creative educator. He would never leave anything about her to another person. He really can't leave the apartment much to get away for shopping or to go out to church or even for a drive. A friend comes in to sit with her while he goes for groceries. He wonders if he will die first because of his heart condition. But she is so frail that he wonders how long she will last. She is all he has and he is all she has--no children, no close relatives. They live for one another, even now.

Staying power. It's what old friends and lovers have for one another and what holds them together.

God's peace to you both, Margaret and Bill. You will never know how you have touched my life.