The Three Faces
The mind of a person with dementia is actually quite fascinating, when it is not upsetting the applecart of our daily existence. Because I spend so much time with Hubby, his behavior is under my microscope. I am sure it is because I am trying to make sense out of a condition which is rarely studied in this manner. Who has the time to sit and muse about all of this? Apparently, I do…
When thinking about a title for this chapter, I remembered The Three Faces of Eve – a film about schizophrenia. Then I thought of the Three faces of Hubby, but really it is not Hubby who has multiple faces, it is me, myself and I. Allow me to explain.
When other spouses share with me that they have had similar experiences to mine, I find it much like the discovery of new pieces to a puzzle. My case in point for the moment is when our mates speak of other wives, some of whom actually have our exact names.
Three years ago, when both my son and grandson came to visit after Hubby’s nightmare hospitalization with fractured hip, it was very confusing for my mate. He was being visited by two men, one almost forty years of age and one about 16, who were these people to him? I repeatedly explained that our son was no longer a little boy, but now a man. His brain could not grab the connection.
Often, Hubby asks: “Where our son?” He expects him to be home or out playing with his friends. I explain that he lives in another country very far away, not with us. I pull out the photos and try to create order in his brain. It is only moderately helpful.
Recently friends caring for their loved ones have shared with me that their spouses too are talking about their two wives with the same name. Hubby definitely refers frequently to “the other Barbara,” which irritates me endlessly. Now that I understand that there is a universality to this behavior, I am giving it more consideration. It is much healthier for us caregivers/spouses to dissect this experience in order to separate ourselves from the knee-jerk emotional reactions which are so self-harming.
Here is my conclusion: My husband remembers the “me” he fell in love with. She was petite, perky, adoring, his companion through thick and thin. That was fifty years ago and she was also “Barbara.” I now believe that when he asks for the “other Barbara” he is asking for her. He is unable to comprehend that I am that same person. In all fairness, it is a stretch of the imagination for anyone to connect the innocent face from fifty years ago with the face in front of him today.
In much the same way, Hubby can remember our little boy, but his brain cannot connect the dots to the man who is his son today. His grandson is even more difficult for him to place into the family tree. Because the mind of the person with memory loss can no longer analyze, deduce, or move from one concept to another, they accept the different memories as separate ones.
Hence, showing Hubby photos of myself and him in our younger days is only helpful in the short term. The short term is a euphemism for minutes, versus hours. I have framed a lovely photo of the two of us at a black-tie dinner about 30 years ago. He barely recognizes himself (but the ego does allow him to do so as the chap in the photo is quite handsome). However, when I ask him who the lovely lady is on his arm, the response is usually “You?” I do prefer that response to: “Mama?”
When Hubby asks for “the other Barbara,” I am now less likely to get upset I did think that it was another person altogether and the little irritable gremlin inside of me was not happy. I no longer believe that he is referring to a different woman, just to the me who no longer is the me of yesteryear.
It would be quite reasonable if someone might take this conclusion and accept it as rationalization. After all, perhaps this poor woman (me) needs to think this – in order to live with the disconnect. No… I do not “need” to explain away Hubby’s behaviors, but I am quite fascinated when I discover that other spouses have had the exact same experiences.
One-by-one the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Welcome, once again – to my world.
