“We Will Care for Him, So That You Can Love Him”

Video Version Here

Placing a loved one in a care facility may be the hardest decision a caregiver has to make. Perhaps the loved one has even expressly stated in the past that he or she never wanted to live in a nursing home. But as the primary caregiver, it may not be possible to honor that desire, but instead, make that painful and excruciating decision.

Going into this journey, I fully expected to have Harvey stay in our home. I thought I would either retire to care for him or hire caregivers to stay with him. I was naïve. I really thought that my sweet, reasonable, compliant husband would just slowly dwindle away. I couldn’t imagine any scenario where I might have to place him in a facility.

Somewhere along the way, I read that the three main reasons for placing a person living with dementia in a memory care unit, in order, are: incontinence, restless sleep, and aggressive behaviors.

Well, all three of these made their appearance the summer of Harvey’s sixth year with Alzheimer’s.

I had thought that incontinence would not be an issue for me. I could handle diapers. What I hadn’t counted on was the stage prior to total incontinence—when an urge appeared, and he didn’t know what to do. The caregivers and I were finding this evidence all over the house and once, even in the backyard. We learned to watch him for signs of agitation, and direct him to the toilet regularly.

Eventually, with adult diapers, it was mostly contained. But I’m here to tell you that grown man poop is not the same as baby poop.

At about the same time, it became harder and harder for us to convince him to shower or change his clothes. He just didn’t understand. As his confusion increased, he began to block our attempts by pushing, shoving, and grabbing our wrists. No one was ever harmed, but the struggle was killing me.

I could put up with all of that, but I decided that if my sleep was  to the degree that I couldn’t function well at the office, I would have to find a memory care unit for Harvey. When he began to have a hard time figuring out how to get back to bed, and when he began to relieve himself on the bathroom floor or the closet, my sleep was definitely disturbed, but I seemed to weather it alright at the office.

Until one night’s sleep was so interrupted by twice having to wash the bed linens, clean the bathroom and my husband, I was in tears. I just couldn’t do it anymore.

I asked one of the caregivers to spend the night, watching over Harvey, while I slept in my daughter’s old bedroom. It was heavenly to sleep through for seven hours.

And I began to finalize plans for moving Harvey into a memory care unit. I had already done some initial tours, so I revisited my favorite ones, taking along my sister or a friend for a second set of eyes and ears, and for moral support.

A series of signs and events affirmed my decision, and I have told that story on stage at The Moth StorySLAM HERE.

The clincher, though, was when the director of my chosen memory care unit said, “Don’t worry, Renée. We will take care of him so that you can love him.”

That’s exactly what I needed to hear. I had become more and more a caregiver, and less and less a loving wife. Once he was settled, I was free to love him completely.