The Best Partner Is the One You Can Do Nothing With

I shared this experience with a friend, who shared a poem by the Uruguayan author Mario Benedetti that he thought would be relevant. It reads in part:

If I love you it’s because you are​
my love my accomplice my all​
and out in the street arm in arm​
we are much more than two.

Shmying, I realized, is not just a walk to nowhere. It’s part of a couple’s DNA. When we shmyed together, we were “much more than two.”

Nowadays, when I shmy, it’s just me. I often feel lonely on these solo walks, thinking about what Marsha and I had — and what we’ve lost.

A few weeks ago, the staff at the house where Marsha lives suggested I take her on a walk — which means pushing her in the wheelchair she now needs to get around. They said they’d been taking her on short walks and she seemed to enjoy them.

Seeing Marsha in a wheelchair is depressing. It reminds me how much of an avid and vigorous walker she once was. But one thing I’ve learned about dementia is you have to deal with things the way they are. So with Marsha seat belted in her wheelchair, off we went on a balmy September afternoon.

There’s really no place to go in the neighborhood around the house: just a series of winding suburban streets, some with sidewalks, some without. But on the initial venture, I enjoyed the fresh air, and I found that being in nature — even suburban nature — helps me forget about the dementia, the wheelchair, the uncertain future.

The wheelchair walk turned out to be a welcome change of pace from our usual visit routine — listening and singing along to music, looking at photos, FaceTiming with family.

We can’t really converse these days — Marsha says some words and phrases but can’t really sustain a back-and-forth. So on our walks, I make all the conversation — snarky comments about the houses, noting a beautiful garden, expressing my annoyance at the lack of sidewalks. I tell Marsha what our kids are up to and recount funny and funky moments from my day at work.

The other day, she looked at me as I blathered on and said, “Shut up!”

I didn’t take it personally. Marsha has always been a no-nonsense communicator. As a former teacher and department chair, she knew how to tell people exactly what she needed from them. One aide once told her, “For someone so petite, you are very assertive.”

And yup, she is still assertive. I’m sure I was a bit annoying in my stream-of-conscience babbling.

Our walks together have became a semiregular thing. A couple days a week, if the weather is right and it’s still light out, we’ll go for a stroll.

When I ask if she likes being outside, she’ll say, “It’s nice” or “I love it.” Sometimes she’ll just smile — and that’s enough. She generally appears calm and content during these outings. Although if there’s a brisk wind blowing, she might say, “Too much.” And I’ll head back to the house.

I’ve found that pushing a wheelchair even on gently rolling suburban streets is a bit of work, so sometimes I want to take a break. The neighborhood has zero benches, so I’ll sit on the curb in the shade of a tree, hold Marsha’s hand.

Inevitably a curious neighbor will ask, “Is everything OK?”

“We’re good,” I’ll reply.

What I really want to say — but don’t because I don’t know if they understand Yiddish — is “We’re just shyming around.”