Oliver: Domestic crises can remind dementia caregivers about how much we’ve lost

As a caregiver for someone with dementia, I’ve learned that it’s best to keep my mind in the present.

If I spend too much time looking at the past, I’ll only become depressed. After all, my dear husband, Tony, was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease nearly 10 years ago.

A lot has happened over the past decade. When our journey began, Tony was able to do a lot of things on his own. If not for some memory issues, people wouldn’t have recognized that anything was wrong.

These days, he is unable to communicate in sentences, babbling incoherently or occasionally using a one-word answer. He also will mimic a word he hears me say. If he’s angry, he has access to the part of his brain that holds “prohibited” or “forbidden” words, which means he’s quite capable of dropping a perfectly formed swear word from time to time.

I also know not to spend too much time thinking about the future. Tony’s condition isn’t going to get better; he’s only going to deteriorate until I lose him entirely. That is an inescapable fact that I try not to dwell on. However, I do think ahead enough to be able to plot the next steps in his care.

As hard as I try to stick to this strategy for my own sanity, life has a way of messing it up.

This happened this past week when our washing machine unexpectedly needed to be replaced.

I suppose it wasn’t completely unexpected; the thing was at least 20 years old. However, as a household of two, we never really put the machine through the rigors that the average household with children would. We’ve always had a way of making things last.

This has begun to change as Tony’s disease has progressed. I find that I’m doing a daily load of laundry to make sure he has fresh bedding every night.

No doubt, this put a burden on the old machine that it just couldn’t handle. When the drum made the sound of a hubcap falling off a vehicle somewhere in the back of the machine, I knew I would have to replace it.

This was the latest example of why I miss my Tony so much. He always was the one who did all our product research whenever we had a big purchase to make. He loved digging in and figuring out what features we needed and how one option’s price stacked up against something else.

I’m too impatient for all of that. I’ll do some rudimentary looking around, but often I get frustrated because things aren’t all that easy to compare. I suppose I also have a fear that I’m picking the wrong thing.

Of course, I now had loads of laundry to do and no washing machine with which to do it. Even if I didn’t particularly care to make a decision, I was stuck.

As I contemplated how much I would rather have Tony make this decision for us, I started to think about all the ways I used to count on him.

He was our researcher. He was our muscle man. He was our fix-it guy. He did so many things that I now find I must either do myself or find someone else to help me with.

It’s no wonder I’ve found myself randomly breaking down in tears. How I miss the husband I had before this terrible disease arrived!

Still, in an indirect way, Tony helped me figure out what washing machine to buy. He had done a good job in finding our last one, and there wasn’t much I didn’t like about it. It had served us long and well.

I figured out the model number and decided that I’d just find its equivalent in today’s machines. I knew I’d have a very good chance of liking the new machine just as much.

Sure enough, I was able to find one. That I also happened to get free delivery was an unexpected bonus.

Tony’s other caregiver, who now serves as the muscle for the Oliver homestead, helped me with the prep work in getting the laundry room ready, as well as supervising the installation.

Of course, that would have been Tony’s job. That’s a reality that I just can’t get around.

I miss him more than I can say.

• Joan Oliver is the former Northwest Herald assistant news editor. She has been associated with the Northwest Herald since 1990. She can be reached at jolivercolumn@gmail.com.