May Edition of Love Notes, Project Everlasting's Free Newsletter

IN MEMORY

One moment, her eyes were present and bright; the next, faded into the confusing abyss of a life without history, a seeming non-existence. Anne Stidham's mind was afflicted by Alzheimer's.

Alzheimer's disease is the ultimate thief: Silent, it sneaks calmly into your bedroom closet while you're brushing your teeth; Subtle, it lifts smaller items here and there, month by month, so that by the time you realize something's missing half your belongings are gone; Merciless, it does not take what it wants and bolt out the back window as you pull the car up the drive, but rather makes a homestead in your brain, ever increasing its lot, pickpocketing your property until you don't remember who you are. And you die with no memory of the life you've lived.

Or, in Anne's case, the husband you've loved for 63 years.

When Mat and I interviewed Anne and her husband, Jim, back in 2005, it was clear that the thief had been with her for quite awhile. She would begin to answer our questions about their early marriage days, then hesitate, confused, then agitated, until finally she'd look to Jim for answers to a question she couldn't remember.

It's frustrating enough as an interviewer when you know the story is right there, just a few details away from being an illuminating anecdote for, in our project's case, how to make a successful relationship tick. But I think it's safe to say we had no idea what frustration really felt like when compared to the daily struggles for Jim, a man who could do nothing for his wife but watch her slowly get robbed of all memory by a disease that has no known cures. Then again, there was just one other thing Jim could do, which he did wholeheartedly: Love her.

There's that famous poem about love in the Bible, often quoted at wedding ceremonies: Love is patient, love is kind, it begins. And that's just it: that's where love's definition merely begins. Because, as Jim's compassion-filled eyes told me that day we sat with him and his memory-challenged wife, Love is not defined in words.

Many of you responded passionately to the last Love Notes I wrote to you, the one about change and compassion, but nobody's response hit me like the one from Stidham's daughter, who replied from Jim's email address:

This is Anne and Jim's daughter. My dad passed away 6 hours short of their 64th wedding anniversary. My mother is sufficiently confused that we never told her, but she knows anyway.
This [email] will be closed shortly.

I wept as I reread the message and thought back to Jim's big, triumphant laughter while he was describing a fight between him and Anne:

"So she sat on top of me and grabbed me by the ears and started pounding my head against the floor and I was just laughing!"

While Mat and I laughed with Jim (now that's a fight!), I noticed Anne's reaction; her face told me that she did not recall this event. And I imagine that since that day, Anne's condition only worsened causing her to simply forget Jim altogether at times, further testing his capacity for patience and selfless love, which, I believe, is the deepest, most inherent gift a relationship can offer: the mirror into which we can look to discover just where exactly we are in our hero's journey - not the journey to amass financial wealth or material goodies, of course, but our spiritual journey to be peaceful and be happy and to know God...to know Love.

Can you create tranquility in your heart and soul, right now and always, regardless of the external circumstances? The best source for your answer to that question is in your intimate relationships with the people who matter most to you.

Whenever someone dies, I think it's important to look upon the person's life and illuminate the positive legacy left behind, and since Anne may or may not remember much about her husband of just six hours shy of 64 years, may you and I honor James Stidham's memory right now by recognizing his essential greatness: He was a truly loving man...he is a hero.

Many blessings to you today...make every memory count, ok?

Jason Miller
Project Everlasting


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