"I Know You"

I nosed my Jeep Cherokee into a parking spot at the care center and took a deep breath. I dreaded going inside. Would Bob be angry today? I didn’t think I could handle it.

I’d put my husband in the Alzheimer’s unit two years earlier, when caring for him became impossible. Now he’d deteriorated to the point where he didn’t know me. I was the woman he’d been married to for over 40 years, yet this cruel disease had rendered me a stranger. It was as if Bob were going through some sort of living death, leaving me isolated.

I remember once, when Bob was still home, hearing him tell a visitor, “I don’t know what I’d do without Shirlee.”

I’d held on to those words ever since, espe­cially during bad days. But could I blame him for being angry? I’d taken from him all he loved. First, his pickup. Then I couldn’t allow him to care for his horses. Finally, I took his freedom by placing him in the center. Then he’d lost the ability to speak.

Maybe it’s just as well, I thought. Most of what he’d said was harsh. He was so afraid.

Dear God, help me be strong, I prayed then walked to the Alzheimer’s wing. If only Bob would be happy to see me. It hurt to know only I had our memories—the homes where we’d lived, the kids we’d raised, the horses we rode together. We were Mr. and Mrs. Bob Evans, a name he no longer knew. I stopped at the nurses’ station. “How’s Bob today?” I asked.

“He’s in a better mood,” the nurse’s aide said. Steeling myself, I stopped in Bob’s doorway. He was on his side, facing the door. He looked as if he wanted to speak. He gestured me to come closer and smiled. Then clear as could be, I heard him say. “I know you, Evans.”

I moved to the side of his bed. “Yes, honey, I’m Shirlee Evans. Your wife.” He grasped my hand, squeezing it, and I could feel strength coming from a place deep inside him, a place no sickness could destroy. Then gradually his grip loosened. Yet that strength conveyed to me he did care. He did know me.

Bob lived for one more month, peace­fully. Never again did he speak. Letting him go was painful, yet liberating. For as he slipped away I was left with the surety that he’d loved me.

And those last words: “I know you, Evans.”