Yesterday was the nine-month mark since my wife, Cheryl, died at Agrace Hospice, but reminders of her keep pouring forth this holiday season.
First, my insurance advisor, Scott, drove from Fort Atkinson to review my options during the current renewal period for Medicare plans. Upon sitting down at our kitchen table, he asked, “How’s Cheryl doing?”
Swallowing hard, I responded, “She died Feb. 25.”
“Oh. Sorry. Did we talk about that?”
“I can’t remember if I told you or not.”
Scott is a handsome guy, and Cheryl always enjoyed his annual visits, even after dementia took hold and I had to choose a plan for her.
I briefly recapped Cheryl’s final weeks of life, Scott again expressed his sympathies, and we got down to business.
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Neighbor and good friend Pam saw a woman walking past her house who looked so much like Cheryl that it took her breath away.
Pam didn’t know this woman; in fact, she’d never seen her before, and neither have I. It was as if Cheryl had returned, if only briefly, Pam told me.
She saw the appearance of this woman not as disconcerting but as a happy remembrance.
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Speaking of Pam, I see her and two other neighbors, Brenda and Marlene, often getting together. This fall, Pam and Brenda or Marlene and Brenda would sit outside and chat or go for walks.
I can’t blame them; in fact, it’s nice to see. Unfortunately, I envisioned Cheryl joining them. She had connections to all three, and I hoped she’d enjoy many more retirement years in the company of these neighbors and other women friends.
It tugs at the heartstrings to imagine what might have been.
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This month the Catholic parish in Janesville marked All Souls Day. Cheryl’s funeral services were at St. John Vianney, but my girlfriend Jennifer and I had plans during St. John’s All Souls Day Mass. However, we could make the earlier one at St. William’s across town. Because the diocese recently merged all four of Janesville’s Catholic churches into one large parish, I hoped that each church might read the names of everyone who had died throughout the parish since last November.
I asked George, liturgical director at St. John’s, if that might be the case. That would be too many people to recognize, he said. Instead, each church would name just its usual members who had passed on. However, George told me that if we planned to attend the Mass at St. William’s, he could make sure Cheryl was named there.
That would be nice, I told him, because Cheryl had strong connections to St. William’s too, including being in the first class to complete all eight grades at St. William’s elementary school and later returning to teach there.
Jennifer and I did attend that Mass and were happy to see that the candles near the altar had one with Cheryl’s name on it, too.
I saved the sheet out of that week’s church bulletin that listed by month the more than 80 Catholic parishioners who died across the city since November 2023.
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The most recent AARP Bulletin had a couple stories about breakthroughs or predicted advancements in Alzheimer’s and dementia treatments.
That would be nice because millions of families are suffering just what Cheryl went through and I endured. I read many similar stories in various publications during Cheryl’s decade-long descent into dementia. Unfortunately, it soon became obvious that any such medical miracle would arrive too late for Cheryl and me.
I pray it can and will help others, the sooner the better.
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A week ago, Jennifer and I watched a taped portion of “CBS Sunday Morning,” one of my favorite shows. In fact, it’s the only program that I tape routinely.
The opening segment was more powerful than most. In it, parents of children who’ve died in school shootings in the past decade or so opened their hearts and the shrine-like rooms of their children, bedrooms left just as they looked the last time their youngsters left their homes.
It was tough to watch. Tears filled my eyes. I could understand how these parents couldn’t bring themselves to dismantle and clear out the bedrooms of their children who were murdered so senselessly. If they cleared those rooms, would it be like those children never lived?
Afterward, Jennifer and I talked about why I didn’t leave such a shrine to Cheryl in this home, which she and I shared. I explained that with Cheryl having become a hoarder in her dementia-stricken years, the clutter overwhelmed me. I needed to purge and clean and started doing so a few months after Cheryl entered Huntington Place memory care. After she died, I donated her vast wardrobe to Agrace, the hospice where she spent her last four days.
Besides, I pointed out, photos of Cheryl are daily reminders of my wife of more than 25 years, and so are her decorating touches. Sure, those will disappear little by little as life moves on. But that will take months and years.
As if to illustrate that point, a day later I was digging for a planter pot in the back corner of the basement and discovered Cheryl’s cozy winter boots under a low shelf. Those, too, will go to a charity.
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Finally, last month also brought the funeral of Leo Fugate, and I attended his funeral visitation at St. John Vianney. Leo was a realtor and land developer in Janesville, and he was involved in many community service efforts. As a longtime local newspaper journalist, I knew of him, but I didn’t meet him until Cheryl entered Huntington Place.
That’s right, Cheryl and Leo spent a year in the same memory care facility.
I also got to know Leo’s only son, Dan. Dan and his wife, Linda, lived in Leo’s home not far from my place, and from time to time they walked by my house and stopped to chat if I happened to be working in the yard.
Dan has long curly hair and an engaging personality. He and Linda were frequent visitors at Huntington Place.
“I can always coax a smile out of Cheryl,” he told me more than once.
“I’ll bet you can.”
Dan and Linda moved to Alabama some months ago, but we stayed in touch by phone and have gotten together when they were back in town to visit Leo.
That connection brings a smile to my face, as well.