I believe no one can better care for Judi than I can. Nearly fifty years of marriage, the intricacies and intimacies of all those years, the love lived and the grace given, the expectations fulfilled and the disappointments endured, all this and more, bestow on me the privilege of caring for Judi during the long goodbye of Alzheimer’s.
But sometimes I fail her.
Most often it happens at the unhappy junction of her “sundowning” and my compassion depletion. Her questions and demands, already insistent and incessant all day long, become more so. I begin to say, “Stop talking, be quiet.” Worse, I become unresponsive, letting her questions and demands go unanswered, her anxiety becoming more present. I excuse myself, saying, “Why bother? It doesn’t do any good, she’ll just ask again and again.” But it’s really because I don’t want to be patient any more.
In those moments, I am ashamed of myself, and I ask Judi to forgive me. But she won’t because she can’t. She doesn’t remember what I just said or didn’t say. It makes my heart ache because it’s another reminder that her brain is failing.
I also ache because her words of absolution never come, and I know that in this life, they never will. So I give her a kiss and say, “I love you,” and she replies, “I love you so much.” I’m grateful for our frequently repeated recital of our love. It is, for me, a sustaining, enriching, and essential truth that, I hope, carries in it unsaid forgiveness.
The words “I forgive you” were never a part of our regular vernacular; they seemed too formal and lordly for us. Instead, expressions like “It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” were more typically our way of absolution. Those are the words I long to hear again.
I tell God about my failures with Judi. I believe that “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” God’s Word tells me he forgives me. I wish Judi could.
I shared this with a friend. With a shrug of his shoulders, he said, “If she doesn’t remember, what’s the problem?” But there is a problem, maybe not for her, but certainly for me.
Better the answer of another friend when I said, “I wish I knew she forgives me.” He replied, “I think she does.” There is reason to believe he is right. Judi and I have had a long history of various versions of “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Our history matters, and so does our present reality of “I love you/I love you so much.”
It has taken its absence, and my longing for it, to embed in me the value of verbalized forgiveness. It is good to think about forgiveness, but my experience tells me it is also important to somehow say it. Jesus commanded, “Go and be reconciled” to your brother or sister (Matthew 5:24, NIV). I think “go” is an important step in asking for forgiveness and seeking reconciliation. Could it be that “forgive as the Lord forgave you” (Colossians 3:13) also has a “go” component?
There is good in the obedience of asking for forgiveness. That Judi can no longer say to me, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” does not mean I can stop saying, “I was wrong, I’m sorry, please forgive me.”
I fear that if I ever stop saying to Judi, “I’m sorry,” it will be because I have stopped caring. I don’t want that to ever happen.
Commentary
Sometimes I Fail Judi
I believe no one can better care for Judi than I can. Nearly fifty years of marriage, the intricacies and intimacies of all those years, the love lived and the grace given, the expectations fulfilled and the disappointments endured, all this and more, bestow on me the privilege of caring for Judi during the long goodbye of Alzheimer’s.
But sometimes I fail her.
Most often it happens at the unhappy junction of her “sundowning” and my compassion depletion. Her questions and demands, already insistent and incessant all day long, become more so. I begin to say, “Stop talking, be quiet.” Worse, I become unresponsive, letting her questions and demands go unanswered, her anxiety becoming more present. I excuse myself, saying, “Why bother? It doesn’t do any good, she’ll just ask again and again.” But it’s really because I don’t want to be patient any more.
In those moments, I am ashamed of myself, and I ask Judi to forgive me. But she won’t because she can’t. She doesn’t remember what I just said or didn’t say. It makes my heart ache because it’s another reminder that her brain is failing.
I also ache because her words of absolution never come, and I know that in this life, they never will. So I give her a kiss and say, “I love you,” and she replies, “I love you so much.” I’m grateful for our frequently repeated recital of our love. It is, for me, a sustaining, enriching, and essential truth that, I hope, carries in it unsaid forgiveness.
The words “I forgive you” were never a part of our regular vernacular; they seemed too formal and lordly for us. Instead, expressions like “It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” were more typically our way of absolution. Those are the words I long to hear again.
I tell God about my failures with Judi. I believe that “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” God’s Word tells me he forgives me. I wish Judi could.
I shared this with a friend. With a shrug of his shoulders, he said, “If she doesn’t remember, what’s the problem?” But there is a problem, maybe not for her, but certainly for me.
Better the answer of another friend when I said, “I wish I knew she forgives me.” He replied, “I think she does.” There is reason to believe he is right. Judi and I have had a long history of various versions of “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Our history matters, and so does our present reality of “I love you/I love you so much.”
It has taken its absence, and my longing for it, to embed in me the value of verbalized forgiveness. It is good to think about forgiveness, but my experience tells me it is also important to somehow say it. Jesus commanded, “Go and be reconciled” to your brother or sister (Matthew 5:24, NIV). I think “go” is an important step in asking for forgiveness and seeking reconciliation. Could it be that “forgive as the Lord forgave you” (Colossians 3:13) also has a “go” component?
There is good in the obedience of asking for forgiveness. That Judi can no longer say to me, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” does not mean I can stop saying, “I was wrong, I’m sorry, please forgive me.”
I fear that if I ever stop saying to Judi, “I’m sorry,” it will be because I have stopped caring. I don’t want that to ever happen.
Mike Guerrero
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