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By Raffique Shah
July 31, 2024
On July 18, I lost my life partner, her beautiful face was the first thing I saw when I woke up and the last thing I saw when I fell asleep at night. I must have had a hard day the day before because somehow, on the morning of her death, I was lying next to her half asleep, with her relatives coming in and out of our room, sobbing and whispering prayers. If the past few weeks had been hard for my family, the last few days leading up to her death and funeral were pure torture.
As I laid beside her for the last time, every time I woke up that night, a million thoughts raced through my mind. She was semi-conscious, the doctors had given the all-clear, and I reached out and touched her face many times, begging her to hold on, to hold on, to fight on.
She gave my hand a gentle squeeze and responded to my voice, mumbling something incoherent and unintelligible that I was sure she spoke. As she breathed in a steady rhythm of oxygen from her tank, I listened to her, hoping she would find the courage to mumble something that would reassure us, her family, that she was still holding on. But deep inside me, this petite, powerful woman had long since given up on her dementia.
This strange and insidious monster had come into our home, into our lives, and had made my wife its victim. I felt helpless. I no longer had the strength to fight. I – who had been battling Parkinson’s for more than a decade – no longer had the strength to help her when she needed it. I thought not, though: we often discussed our endgame, dealing with it most of the time with humor, but always with the assurance that I would come before her. Of course, we didn’t have this power that we had given ourselves, and we knew it. But we still wondered how our endgame would be.
When she was diagnosed with dementia about a year ago, our family had to take quick actions that we had never considered before to make our home a safer place for my beloved wife, where she could always walk out the door, hop on the “train” and happily visit “Mom” and “Mai.” The toll that dementia takes on the human brain is truly staggering.
From our recent experience with dementia, I wonder if people with dementia – who can be of any age, middle-aged or elderly, but very scary, not just for the elderly – will be ready to deal with it. We preach about the dangers of lifestyle diseases but never venture to mention the consequences of such diseases. Dementia is now a reality for many people with high blood pressure and uncontrolled diabetes.
We discovered that Rosina might be suffering from the disorder when we found that she was reluctant to engage in conversation which was common in the Shah’s residence. Another sign was that she spoke incomplete words or could not form coherent sentences. She was a master in English, which is why this surprised us so much.
Fortunately, we took steps to protect our newborn at home as her condition rapidly worsened. She tested our patience many times, but our love for her never wavered, and somehow we managed to survive some of the most trying events, which could happen daily, multiple times a day. Fortunately, the rest of our extended family stepped in and helped ease the situation at home.
Because we cared so much for Rosina, we hired people to assist in her care. Many people made great sacrifices to be with her during her last difficult days, which stretched our resources to the limit. Our two children made sure she had everything we could to make her life bearable. When it came to the end—and we didn’t know it would be the last—she was surrounded by the love and prayers of her family and friends.
When I wrote recently about our love, I mentioned that we had been married for 50 years. On that last night, as I looked at her, crying silently and wishing she would return to a normal life, I knew that almost everyone was hoping for the same thing.
Not only was she a pretty face and a beautiful woman, she was a kind, caring person who touched the lives of all who were lucky enough to meet her and share her passion.
Rosina, my love, until we meet again…
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