Taking Care
by Alice D. Outwater, Ph.D.

Our Past as Panacea

John is always on my mind. Part of me is in a constant dither and so sad as he slips more into dementia; the other half is moving along reinventing myself, as I tell everyone. That phrase gives me courage and helps cast normality to my life.
“Oh, Ali, I’m doing my best. Things are complicated now. But I like it here.” His energy is down, he’s sleeping more. We’re down to the basics now: he simply can’t compute conversations, so I don’t even try to share what I’ve done or any news of the children,
Thank goodness the staff is so patient and kind. The Arbors is definitely attractive. I hung two handsome hunting prints with maple frames in his room, favorites of his father who bought them in London when John was a child. Also my Bachrach wedding picture and one of him on an elephant in Sri Lanka. Photos of the children and grandchildren rest on his windowsill.
I pause to inspect the large photo of us together in the Swiss Alps, dressed in red and blue-striped sweaters with our arms around each other’s waists. We are bursting with vigor and health. Our clear gazes look out into the distance framed by the Alps with a brushing of snow lingering near the summits.
This was our 25th anniversary, and John had offered to take me any place in the world. I wanted to climb again in the French Alps as I had in college. “Oh, Ali, we’ll go to the Swiss Alps together because neither of us has done that.” That early May we traveled to Wengen, a charming mountain village poised under the brow of the Jungfrau.
The fancy 1920s hotel had barely opened for the season and offered us their finest room, with long casement windows on the balcony facing those majestic Alps. Each morning we woke to inhale the thin, clean air. At night the stars jumped out against the dark sky, entered our room, and almost nipped us as we drifted off to sleep. The air was cool, but we snuggled under the eiderdown comforters toasty as could be. We slept deeply, exhausted after the day’s climb.
Each morning we put on speckled grey wool socks, then tugged on our sturdy leather hiking boots and grabbed our walking sticks. Oh, how official we felt striding into the huge high-ceiling dining room for a hearty breakfast. Young Swiss waitresses with pink cheeks greeted us, happy to see a few early-season guests. The tables, all with little vases of fresh flowers, were set with white tablecloths and polished glasses. We feasted on cheeses, dark bread–sometimes pancakes and sausages. All with steaming cups of coffee.
After breakfast we’d stroll to the bakery, following its beckoning smell. For lunch we’d purchase fresh bread and cheese, some fruit and Toblerone chocolate, perhaps adding a small bottle of wine. We tucked them in John’s knapsack while I carried the two bottles of water.
The wildflowers carpeted the fields in a frenzy of color. The very first day we found a cluster of edelweiss high up near a rocky ledge that they favored. We each picked one and carefully pressed them into the pockets of our parkas to save.
We weren’t climbing by any stretch of the imagination – it was more mountain walking. The trails were clearly marked with the number of kilometers to the top. So we always knew how far we’d gone and didn’t need to overdo it. Around midday, surrounded by those extraordinary mountains, we’d find a lush pasture and settle down to eat our lunch. John would take out his red Swiss Army knife to meticulously slice the cheese in even pieces. He looked like a small boy tackling a grown-up task.
Cows moseyed along with their bells clanking, having recently arrived for summer pasturing. We’d position ourselves near a fence in case a fussy bull appeared in the field and we needed to make a fast getaway. Drowsy from the food and exercise, we’d stretch out and nap a bit in the sun, using our knapsacks as pillows. Occasionally we’d hear a rumble as sloughs of loose snow flew down the mountain in a mini-avalanche. The sharp booming and crackling bounced off adjoining peaks.
Serious climbers waved and laughed at our lazy siesta as ropes, crampons and picks clattered on their knapsacks.
There was something so basic, so exceptional and vivid about these mountain vacations. Of all our travels they were my very favorites. I found it hard to describe them to others; perhaps I couldn’t find words that captured the magic. Each day was so complete, each day we felt stronger and healthier and so very content. We were enveloped by such unspoiled grandeur.
Still in my reverie, I turned from the photo to say something to John and realized he wouldn’t be able to grasp it. That’s alright, Alice, you’ve reminisced about these trips many times together. He knows how much you treasure them and how you love each other. Just feel satisfied with that.
He had fallen asleep, so I kissed his check and tiptoed out of the room. I tried to hold onto the feelings I’d had viewing the photo and this time succeeded a bit.
I stopped the car to walk at Shelburne Farms, pretending everything was all right . . . then I felt devastated.
And yet, I’m doing my part, whatever that is these days. It’s all out of my hands. His journey continues as his energy declines and his body weakens. I feel so unprepared and don’t like any of this. Why, oh why, is it so difficult to accept? Was it foolish to have loved someone so deeply for so long? Of course not. It is a blessing.