A journey down the last road

On Nov. 1 I was traveling on a two-lane blacktop along a ridge to the nearest town when Vic Damone (remember him?) came on the car stereo singing, “Winter Wonderland,” totally out of sync with the warm weather of the day. Hearing that particular tune took me back four years, to a time when my wife Bobbi was on her journey down the last road. As many of you know, she was given a diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer’s some years before, one of God’s little jokes on a brilliant woman.

Every morning I would shower her and wash her beautiful long hair, after which I’d towel dry her and help her into her favorite soft, white, terry cloth robe. She’d then take a seat on a stool I used to keep on stage with me when I was younger, performing in rock 'n' roll bands, the stool was perfect for waiting between sets and the proper height for a woman being tended to by that same guy with a blow dryer and a brush.

As I brushed, I sang, almost always ending with “Winter Wonderland,” regardless of the time of year. It’s a terrific tune, about love and romance, quaint notions that, in my cynical moments I fear we’re losing. Often I would change the lyrics while singing: “Later on we’ll perspire, Cuz we’re close to a fire.” That sort of thing. It was all silly and it made Bobbi smile. She always smiled, every day until the very end. You see, here’s where my story as a caregiver seems to be an outlier. I hear about so many people with Alzheimer’s who change during their voyage, becoming angry, profane, and just generally difficult. I keep quiet around those who relay these stories because I experienced none of them. Bobbi was the same sweet person every day. We were both quite blessed, and she allowed me to, as the song says, “Face unafraid the plans that we’ve made.”

Only once did I cry during her journey, because I thought those plans would have to change. My plan was to take care of her until the end, something made possible because I was strong and she was petite. Then one day six months prior to her passing, I thought I was having another heart attack, as did a local emergency room doctor and the EMT monitoring my heart on an ambulance ride to a hospital where a coronary team awaited. Neighbors took care of Bobbi until her sister and my sister arrived from their respective cities, three-plus hours away. I broke down and cried in the ambulance, not for me, but for my beautiful wife who, if I died, would likely be taken to some facility or other where people unknown to her would feed her, change her, wipe her, bathe her, and talk to her as a fellow sentient human being. I couldn’t bear the thought of that, of her not knowing or understanding what was happening to her. She deserved better, as does everyone.

Obviously I didn’t die. I was able to get us across the finish line on a cold Christmas Eve, each of us enjoying every day; and she always knew that I was her person. The journey taken by my wife continues to inform almost every moment of my life. She never got to be an old lady and, while I miss her terribly, I’m happy being an old guy. Music triggers so many of our memories, especially during the holidays and, while I’m no Vic Damone, if I do say so myself, my rendition of Walking in a Winter Wonderland was pretty good, full voice, above the sound of a blowing hair dryer, and I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything. And, if you ask real nicely, I might even sing it for you but don’t count on the correct lyrics.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. The Dubuque Telegraph Herald recently published a 60-page magazine of Kurt’s columns. The magazine can be purchased here