THE GIFT OF GAB — ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

Ken was always a talker and so at ease with people.  When we met that was the first thing I liked about him.  Had he been Irish I would have guessed he kissed the Blarney Stone, but he wasn’t and so he didn’t  Ken was just blessed with the gift of gab. During our marriage I sometimes wondered if he really liked people or if he liked them because they listened?  I doubt he ever analyzed himself, and even if he did what would that prove?  Possibly that he liked to talk and he also liked people; making the question and answer come to a full circle.

For years he volunteered his spare time serving as cub master, scout master, Little League coach, manager, League president, Sunday school teacher, and the list goes on.  During that time Ken was the middle-aged man working with youth and loving every minute.  How gratifying it was to see the boys, eagerness filling their young faces asking, “Mr. Romick, did you me catch that ball?”  And to see 8-and-9-year-old Cub Scouts saluting and grinning from ear to ear as they not only received an award, but words of praise as well. Whether they were eight or 18 Ken always had some special compliment for “his” boys.

It was years later when someone called out from across the street or the mall, “Hey, Mr. Romick, how ya doing?” that we realized how quickly time had passed. Looking into the unfamiliar face of an obvious acquaintance, these typical middle-aged men with receding hairlines and mid-sections telling they were well fed and cared for, were Ken’s “boys.”  We were always amazed to acknowledge that the “boys” had grown up while we were growing older.   Meeting them once again, and watching as they grabbed Ken’s hand shaking it vigorously, I became aware of the great affection these men still had for my husband.  “It’s me, Mr. Romick, Steve from Little League,” or it could be Mark from scouts or Aaron from his old Sunday School class; all of them genuinely happy to once again meet this “mentor” from the past.

I doubt Ken ever thought of himself as anyone’s mentor.  It wasn’t just about what he did, but more who he was and what he said.  How it touches my heart even now when one of his former “boys” tells me how much Ken had impacted their life, how he had made them feel they were “somebody,” and they could do anything, meet life’s challenges and reach their best potential because Mr. Romick had faith in them and said he knew they could do it.  To many, his words were a gift.

Alzheimer’s eventually robs its victims of just about everything they ever had or held dear.  Communication with Alzheimer’s patients varies, and even conversation with the same patient differs from day to day and from night to night.

In his recent book, “Adventures Of An Incurable Optimist – Always Looking Up,” Michael J. Fox tells about his sleeping experience.   Apparently, with his Parkinson’s the tremors stop when the brain is at rest.  When I heard him speak of this during an interview, I thought about the differences with Ken when he had been asleep for a time.  

I have no doubt that the disease saps energy.  For several years, Ken went to bed well before I did (except when he is extremely agitated or disturbed).  Once he was settled I knew it was my turn to get settled.  No matter what his mood swing might have been just before bedtime, or whether he knew me or not, when I climbed into bed he turned to me, barely opening his eyes and lovingly asked, “Is that you dear?”  I assured him it was me and he followed up with something like, “I love you.  Goodnight.”  For those moments he was Ken, and in retrospect, I can’t help but wonder if his resting brain, like Michael’s resting brain, might permit the tangles to relax enough for a bit of normalcy to return allowing stored and familiar memories to emerge.   As a lay person, all I can do is observe and speculate.  For me, his asking questions during those small snippets of time, and accepting the appropriate answers were good, but brief, conversations.

However, with Alzheimer’s change is constant.  After several months, I found I was no longer able to “settle in.”  Even though he still asked, “Is that you dear?” falling back into slumber within a few minutes, I learned very quickly there was more to come.  Peace and tranquility prevailed until one night our comfortable routine developed a glitch.  Ken began talking in his sleep just about the time I was dozing off.  While it didn’t occur every night, it happened often enough to sabotage a good night’s sleep.

The interesting thing about him talking in his sleep was the articulation and sentence construction, which were clear and concise; actually better than some of what we were able to experience during the day.  I sat up in bed and listened.  At first I chuckled to myself, remembering how much he loved to talk.  So here he was deep in sleep having great conversations.  Ken would make a statement, pose a question, or wait for an answer. The timing was so on target I almost expected to hear another voice.  No doubt he was dreaming, and the person in his dream furnished the other half of the dialogue.  Because of the clarity I couldn’t help but think once again about the possibility of his resting brain allowing him to even laugh during his unlabored middle-of-the-night chats.

 Nevertheless, these outbursts of talking did nothing for my period of sleep and rest.   “Shhhh,” I would whisper.”  His talking continued.  “Be quiet,” I requested, my voice becoming louder.  “Buddy, stop talking,” I commanded in the voice of his mother.  “You stop talking,” he countered.  I tried the voice of a teacher calling him Ken, Bud, Buddy, Kenneth and Hey You, all to no avail.  He always had an answer, and the answer told me he was not going to stop talking.

As the filibuster continued, I picked up my pillow, closed the bedroom door and retired to the couch in the family room, which I didn’t mind.  The couch, a warm blanket and I had been friends for a long time dating back to hot flashes and sudden awakenings of years gone by.  The silence was golden as I adjusted the pillow, snuggled into my blanket, and smiled as I thought of the noisy convention in the bedroom.

Perhaps, I mused, Ken may have managed to play a trick on the devil disease by skirting around the pitfalls of daytime consciousness, taking refuge either in the subconscious or somewhere in his resting, relaxed brain.  I don’t have any answers, but wherever he might be during those happy hours of nocturnal conversations he’s in his best element.

Originally posted 2010-09-05 06:09:56.

2 Responses to THE GIFT OF GAB — ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

  • Robin Ellis says:

    What a sweet way of responding! Your observations sound worth investigating, too! (I hope someone will!)

    • aromick says:

      Thanks for sharing — and reading. I’ve always said that being married to Ken was an adventure. Still is, but in a very different way. We just accept what we cannot change.

Sign-up For Our Newsletter

Sign-up for our free newsletter and receive expert tips from Ann Romick, a woman who has cared for 4 different family members with Alzheimer's over a span of 30 years. Be the first to get notification of her forthcoming book, Journey Into the Fog, based on her experiences.

We respect your email privacy

Email Marketing by AWeber