The Cavalry Is Not Coming

Reposting for the new platform.

I have not posted here for quite a while, and I want to let you know that I am still here. I hope you all are doing well, and I also have a thought process to share with you.

October 1, 2022 will mark seven years since my wife’s dementia became obvious, and that I knew for certain that this journey would begin. I had sensed something was “a bit off” before then, but that date stands out as the moment that I knew with certainty. I use the date Oct. 1, 2015 as the beginning of this journey.

I write this today with a light heart, and a feeling of optimism that I have not felt for years. Nothing has changed – my wife is still in the throes of dementia, and I am certainly still an exhausted, burned-out caregiver and fulltime employee. I have not placed my wife in a facility – she is still at home with me, or at the adult day care while I work. As I said, nothing has really changed, save for the continuous downhill progression of this god-awful disease.

Rather than post another hopeless, angry rant filled with strife, I want to share with you how one of my greatest fears has come to pass, and how it is actually a relief. My fear has always been the following:

The Cavalry Is Not Coming.

I have spent many a day frozen in fear of being alone: Afraid of being left emotionally alone, physically alone, and spiritually alone. Alone in feeling my way around in the dark, trying to navigate dementia caregiving as best as I can. Many of us on this board post “virtual cries for help,” and I have done that many, many times. I have gone into this ordeal kicking and screaming, which is a perfectly human and natural reaction to a trauma of this magnitude.

Some measure of peace and calm is found in simply discovering that the Cavalry Is Not Coming.

Family and friends mean well, the medical community cannot do much for a terminal illness, and non-profit organizations do what they can to educate us and mitigate the damage. There is not much anyone can do to help us. We are on our own.

In nearly seven years, I can only site one time that I had true, respite level help without a pricey invoice arriving afterword. Once, in seven years.

In times past, I would have been bitter and angry about this, but I have finally arrived at an important conclusion. I am on my own, and no one is really going to help me. I am no longer bitter about this, as I have finally realized that other people have their own crosses to bear. Odd as it sounds, there is a peace to be had in such a revelation.

In the movie Castaway, Tom Hanks’ character was marooned on an island. At first, he tried to find help: Screaming to see if anyone else was there, spelling HELP on the beach. All to no avail. At some point, he accepted that fact that he would have to fend for himself and got busy with the tasks of survival. He even learned to thrive.

Since I posted last, I have taken on the point of view that “The Cavalry Is Not Coming” to epic levels. My wife’s well-being today, as well as my future life, is completely in my hands now. I am now the King of the Castle, Lord of the Manor, Large and In Charge. Yes, I still have meals to cook, dishes to wash, showers to give, medications to manage, diapers to change, and a fulltime job to boot. Life is busy, difficult, and exhausting. But I have some measure of control, and I can call all the shots. That ugly picture on the wall? Gone. Pizza night again? You bet. Two hundred cookbooks on the shelf? We only need twenty. This house needs to accommodate my needs so that I can best take care of my dear wife in these final times. That means removing tripping hazards, redecorating in a light and happy way, and decluttering to the max.

There is a feeling of relief when you just let go and realize that no one is going to help you. The kids (if you have them) are busy building a life of their own, and friends and family have their own problems to manage. I have lowered my expectations to nearly zero, and it has been very liberating. If you have reached this stage (or passed it), you understand. If you are still frozen, kicking and screaming for help, hang in there. Look around you and remember, The Cavalry Is Not Coming.

That said, continue to utilize services that are available. Keep up those doctor appointments, call the Alzheimer’s hotline (800-272-3900) when you are overwhelmed, grab takeout, call friends and family to talk, or even ask a small favor. Use devices and technology to help you – cameras, cabinet locks, grab bars, the “good” diapers, etc. Make everything as safe and foolproof as possible. Be sure your loved one cannot lock themselves in the bathroom, or that you cannot get locked out of the house. Secure anything hazardous. You are the Safety Inspector now. But do not expect anyone to be there to help you change your loved one’s diaper, make dinner, or wash dishes. Get that mindset that you are on your own and take control of it all. Your loved one can no longer help and can no longer make decisions.

After reading this, take a deep breath, and say “I am on my own, and I am doing the best that I can.” I really hope this makes you feel better. This is a horrible situation to be in, and sometimes realizing that you are on your own is just what you need to hear.

This also means that the decision to place your dear loved one in memory care is yours and yours alone. No one can tell you where you are on this journey, and no one can tell you how exhausted you are. You are on your own, no one is going to help you, The Cavalry Is Not Coming.

Nobody's going to help you

You've just got to stand up alone

And dig in your heels

And see how it feels

To raise a little Hell of your own

---Trooper, Raise a Little Hell (1978)

You're only human

You're gonna have to deal with heartache

Just like a boxer in a title fight

You got to walk in that ring all alone

---Billy Joel, You’re Only Human (1985)

With Love,

Bill_2001