I came across an interesting tree while hiking in Oak Mountain State Park, in Shelby County, Alabama. It was on a heavily trafficked trail called King’s Chair Overlook, so perhaps you’ve seen it if you’ve hiked there. The tree had a normal enough appearing trunk at earth level, but then it seemed to spread out and merge with a large rock. Above the rock, it looked like a normal tree again. I’ve seen saplings bent at odd angles as they grew around an obstacle, but I’ve never seen a mature tree so fully adapted to a boulder.
I imagine the sapling grew near the base of this boulder, then probably continued to reach for the sun by growing away and out from the rock. As it started to push upward again, it continued to encounter the obstacle, but molded itself to the contour of the boulder. Once it had grown beyond the outcrop of rock, it could again assume its vertical climb toward the sun.
I was certainly changed by my husband, Harvey’s, time with younger-onset Alzheimer’s disease. It molded me into a new creature as I adapted and shifted and adjusted to my new life. New lives, plural, because Alzheimer’s disease is a moving target, always changing. Now that this part of my life is over, and I have resumed my life with some degree of normalcy, I am left with scars from that time that will never go away.
I didn’t have the wherewithal to know what I was doing, bending and reshaping my life to fit the circumstances at the time. I just did what needed to be done. But it changed me.
Prior to Harvey’s time with dementia, I was uncomfortable around persons living with this diagnosis. I tried not to be, and I don’t think it was noticeable, but there was something inside of me that just couldn’t relate to someone with poor cognition.
That’s completely gone now. I actually enjoy spending time with persons living with dementia, talking to them, joining them in their world. I enjoy speaking with caregivers, usually spouses, about their experiences, and offer advice if asked, or just an ear if that’s all that’s required.
I was a strong person before Harvey’s diagnosis, but I really came into my strength during that time. I could assess a situation and make challenging decisions. In the past, I sometimes dithered with some decisions, but now, I just make them. Why put off a decision when I can take care of it now?
Prior to our family’s time with Alzheimer’s disease, I did feel like I had a fairly balanced work-home lifestyle. During his illness, the balance was harder to achieve just because of all the tasks required of me. I learned that taking care of myself didn’t necessarily mean spa retreats, shopping, or meeting friends for lunch. It became more about what brought me peace and joy—nature, artistic endeavors, reading.
And I value my own life much more now, trying not to take it for granted. I want to live and be healthy for much longer. I want to enjoy time with my family doing the active things we like to do together. So I am taking better care of my health.
Harvey’s illness certainly scarred him, and I have written about ways some of those scars were beautiful here.
But I, and our daughters, carry deep, tender wounds from those years too. Scarring is taking place, so that the wounds are not quite so raw now, with the passage of time. But like that tree, the scars are there; they have molded me into the person I am today.
I am marked, but I will continue to grow and reach for the sun.