Have you seen the movie the Notebook? Spoiler alert, it’s a love story about a couple where the wife has dementia. Her husband goes to see her almost every day and tells her their story, hoping she will remember. I am watching a real-life version of the Notebook. For the past few years, Dad has sat with Mom faithfully. Looked at photo albums of their past, trying to remind her of all they share. Sometimes she lights up with recognition and other times, not so much. I have watched him adjust as she has slowly declined. His grief is great, but his love is greater.

Recently, she has taken another down turn. She can no longer feed herself and her food has to be pureed now. She is distant more often. She sleeps a lot of the time. However, as always, when she does connect, she smiles and laughs. That is just getting more infrequent. Yet, her sweet spirit is in evidence always. Never a harsh word.

Monday, as they were moving her in a lift to her chair, the sling somehow failed and she ended up in the floor. She landed with her left knee behind her. Her femur snapped just above the knee and was displaced. Dad rode in the ambulance to the ER. Melinda, Dad, and I have been tag teaming the hospital stay ever since. We are all here during the day with Mom, and at night one of us goes with Dad and the other stays with Mom in her room. We are truly a team. Trying to be Mom’s voice since she cannot communicate if/or where she hurts, if she knows what has happened or where she is. She cannot tell her birthday or her name, so anyone who comes in must be informed that, though she is pleasant and smiling, she doesn’t know what they are saying. We have to guess from the grimaces on her face when she hurts because she cannot tell us.

Considering the significance of the break, Mom is doing well. She is in a lot of pain when they move her around in the bed, but once they stop she is back to her smiley self. She is napping a lot of the time and watching TV with no sound when she’s awake. Dad sits by the bed and holds her hand. He rubs her head to soothe her into a nap. He mostly talks to her and laughs with her even though he has no idea why she is laughing.  He is her person. She lights up when he is near.

Our options were to do surgery where screws and plates would be inserted, or to go non-surgical with an immobilizer, which is a big brace that keeps her leg from bending. Since she hasn’t walked for years, and no longer is weight bearing, we opted for the non-surgical option. That would also prevent her from having to go under anesthesia and making her brain worse. Her leg will be in the brace for a month while it heals, then they will work on attempting to get some bend back if possible.

In the meantime, they are going to be managing her pain and keeping her comfortable back at Lanier Village in her regular room there. They have the lifts and chairs they need to make things as easy for her as possible. We are attempting to keep her from being permanently bedridden. Our goal is to get her back to the point where we can still push her in a wheelchair into the garden and go to our Friday lunches. The orthopedic team feels that this is within reason and she should be able to get back to that.

These are hard choices. Taking a toll on all of our emotions as we navigate this latest bump in our dementia journey. We are teary. We are heavy hearted. We are tired. We are in uncharted water…again. Each twist, each decline brings us closer to the part we dread the most. The long goodbye is getting shorter, but still with a foggy, unknown chapter.  

Yet, I watch this beautiful love story with so much gratefulness to be a witness. It is precious to see how much love flows as Dad tells the story. Every day. And Mom’s eyes shine. Their hearts joined to the very last chapter. Our very own Notebook.