The Widower

Remembering a Support Group Friend

The name was sending signals to my brain. I should know this woman. Even with her photo in the obituary, it still took a beat or two before I realized it—Virginia F. Weber had been an integral part of my monthly caregiver support group.

As I explained in a Substack column last year, I joined the support group a decade ago. Because the meetings were at noon two blocks from the newspaper office where I worked, I could walk to them before joining my wife, Cheryl, at our Janesville, Wisconsin, home for my lunch breaks.

For me, the group was a place to not feel so alone. A place to get advice on how to deal with Cheryl’s ever-changing issues as her dementia worsened. A safe place to release my feelings, frustrations, and anger.

At first, I didn’t tell Cheryl about the meetings. I figured she’d be upset, and when I retired nine years ago and did tell her, I was right. She got angry. She wanted me to stop going, but then relented. Still, she often denied her memory problems and seemed bitter each time I told her I was going. So I resorted to white lies, a technique my support group encouraged. I told Cheryl that I had to run an errand or two, but instead headed to the meeting.

Virginia attended our church, and because Cheryl didn’t know her, I’d lag a step as we headed to a pew and wave at Virginia, who used a walker and sat in a pew designated for such parishioners. If Cheryl had seen me acknowledge Virginia, she’d have wanted to know how I knew her, and that may have triggered friction.

Virginia Weber’s obituary photo.

Virginia was the caregiver for her husband, Ron. They were married 53 years before he died in 2017. Enough years have passed that I can’t recall his affliction, but I remember Virginia saying she’d placed him at St. Elizabeth Manor in Footville, ten miles west of my home in Janesville. Virginia said veterans benefits helped pay for his care. I’d heard good things about that facility and hoped that, if the day came, I might place Cheryl there. Unfortunately, as I learned, the Footville location has no memory care unit.

Like Cheryl, Virginia was born and raised in Janesville, and both women were short. I recall Virginia as good natured and fun to have in the support group. She had two sons and three grandchildren, and I imagined she was a loving grandmother.

This photo, on display during her funeral visitation, shows Virginia’s playful side.

She wasn’t like another woman in our support group, one who got irate at her dementia-plagued husband after he threatened her daughter, so the daughter was moving out, leaving the woman stuck with all the care again. She said that if her husband threatened her, she’d hit him with a frying pan.

“I still love him, but I don’t like him,” she told us.

I responded, “Please don’t hit him with a frying pan. You’ll outlive him, and you don’t want to spend that time in prison. If he threatens you, get out and call 911.”

She did outlive him but died too young, during the Covid pandemic.

Virginia kept coming for months after Ron died.

After Cheryl died, I continued to go, as well, to support others serving as caregivers for loved ones. However, last year, our leader made the sensible decision to disband the group after attendance waned. That’s too bad because I know too many people starting down the dark road of dementia with a loved one and feeling isolated.

From time to time in recent years, I’d see Virginia out shopping. I greeted her warmly, and she returned that affection.

Virginia, 88, died Aug. 16 at a Madison hospital. Services were last Saturday, Oct. 18, at Henke-Clarson Funeral Home in Janesville.

Rest in peace, Virginia.