The Man I Fell in Love With
Today, while vacuuming and mopping, I found myself remembering my husband after Alzheimer’s—not the man Alzheimer’s left behind, but the man I fell in love with.
Dave was so handsome. His beard was always neatly trimmed and styled. He was sexy too. He was sexy when he pulled his hair back before sliding under a vehicle, when he directed someone while they backed up, when he lifted something heavy, or when that look came over his face while he was focused on a job.
Hell, he was sexy even smoking (thankfully, a habit we helped him break). It was the way he held that cigarette and then took a hit off of it. The way he carried his water bottle.
Dave was a very romantic man. He would softly croon to me while we slow danced in the living room. He would surprise me with a reservation at a nice restaurant. We held hands everywhere at his insistence, and we held hands at night while watching television.
When we watched a movie in the living room, he’d sit in his recliner, and I’d recline back between his legs so we could sit comfortably together. If I dozed off, he made sure no one woke me.
Until Alzheimer’s changed him, Dave made sure I knew I was loved. He made me feel important to him. He cherished me and he cherished our relationship. He was always sneaking up on me and planting a kiss on the back of my neck and taking off. I miss that.
When I sat next to him, he would lovingly caress my back, which could suddenly turn into tickling my ribs.
My Playful, Loving Husband
My Dave was so playful and witty. He matched my playfulness because I am very playful myself. He and I teased one another so often, and we never got offended because we never put one another down. We respected one another. If he got smart with me, I’d reach over, pinch his laughing cheeks, and say, “You’re so cute,” all while giving those cheeks a good squeeze.
Even at the end of his life, being bed bound did not stop him from being a lovable stinker. He grabbed my face and gave me a beard rub. I was laughing so hard. Then he grabbed my glasses and started waving them around just out of my reach.
If I made a big oops, he would say, “Having problems there, darlin’?”
When we did get into a big argument, we didn’t stay angry for long. We couldn’t bear being separated by anger. It made us physically ill. So we made up quickly.
We would take popular songs and change the words to fit whatever situation we were in at the moment, then sing them together.
I miss those times with him. I miss his companionship. We were like a pair of squirrels, I think, playing and enjoying life together. I spoiled him, and he spoiled me. I loved nothing more than getting him a drink and popping the cap for him. He rarely told me, “No,” but then again, I rarely said no to him. We wanted one another to be happy.
The Man Who Made Me Feel Safe
Dave was perfect for me. He accepted me as I was. He didn’t care that my body was imperfect after having babies and C-sections. He loved squeezing my belly at night. He treasured it, actually. He told me that was because it carried our babies.
Dave made me feel safe—a safety I had never felt elsewhere or with any other person. Period.
Remembering Dave After Alzheimer’s
Dave was such a big exaggerator. His storytelling could become so absurd. He’d crack me up. Either someone had seriously abused him, or that moose brushed right up against him when it passed by.
So while I’m smiling while writing about my Dave, I have tears brimming in my eyes as well. I’m always going to mourn him. At the moment, I doubt it will ever get easier. But that’s okay. It reminds me that I still love him and long for him. I cherish the moments we had and can always reach into my memories and find a moment that makes me smile.
The years I spent caring for Dave through Alzheimer’s changed me in ways I never expected. You can read more about our Alzheimer’s journey here: