To love, in sickness and in health
The vow that made me hesitate on marriage
Trigger warning: Mentions of death and suicidal ideation
For the longest time, I believed that my dad loved my mum more than she loves him.
How could he not? My mum is the life of the party. In every gathering, people flocked towards her, drawn by her bright laughter and excited chatter. Ever the introvert, my dad sat on the sidelines, smiling and gazing at her. Sharing my dad’s genes, I sat on the same sidelines and watched his gaze land on her with a look that can only be described as adoration.
Then, from the beginning of 2013, the complaints started.
“Your dad is growing difficult as he’s aging,” my mum grumbled in our weekly calls. I was studying overseas in a newly minted relationship with husband-then-boyfriend while my mum talked my ear off with complaints. My dad was no longer willing to do the things he normally did around the house; change the light fixtures, help feed our chickens and clean the chicken coop, and so forth. Worse still, my dad got angry at my mum when she asked him to help, saying it is difficult to complete these chores.
I thought they were headed for divorce.
Then I returned home mid-2013, and I felt something wasn’t right with my dad.
My dad’s new behaviour bothered me. From being the person who reminded everyone to switch off the lights, he left them on as he wandered the house. “I can’t fix this” came out of his mouth more often even though he was a genius with his hands and tools.
I became convinced in my bones that this wasn’t normal aging. When I voiced my concerns timidly to my mum and my closer relatives, they would respond with a variant of, “Choy! Choy! Choy! Everyone gets difficult as they age.” (Trust the Asian belief that voicing concerns with dad’s health will manifest tangible illnesses; most of my relatives will rather stick their heads in the sand).
But I persisted in getting him checked. God was kind enough to plant me in a church with a convenient access to a doctor friend and several people with less superstition, so after several conversations my dad’s appointment with a specialist was arranged.
We rang in the year 2014 with the official diagnosis of my dad’s early-onset dementia. He was 63.
My mum’s grumblings stilled and she regarded my dad with new light. He didn’t mean to do any of this to her. And my mum’s caretaking duties began.
A day, a week, a month, or all at once, my dad lost one more function that was previously taken for granted. He used to be able to mop the house as my mum vacuumed, and then he can’t. He could bathe himself, then he can’t. He could use the toilet by himself, then we had to clean him up after he had accidents in the house. He could stand up and help as we got him in and out of the wheelchair, or as we showered him, then he can’t. He could tell us what he wanted to eat, then he could only spit out what he didn’t want to eat as we fed him his meals. He could drink water from a cup, then he had to use a straw. He could chew his food, then he forgot how to swallow safely.
I cried a lot during this period, grieving my dad’s loss of cognitive and executive functions. Even the processes that come so instinctively - chewing and eventually breathing! - became Herculean efforts. I also grew frightened of my dad as he had violent episodes - he hit my mum occasionally - something he would never have done if his mind were well. In fact, he would throw himself in front of a truck if it means shielding my mum.
I also grieved watching my mum’s love and care for my dad. I was always secondary caregiver, and she was the faithful primary caregiver for four years until we were in the position where we could afford external help. Even then, in the 6.5 remaining years of my dad’s life, my mum was involved in my dad’s daily showers until he was reduced to taking sponge baths on the medical bed we bought. No hits or bruises deterred her from her duty, and she didn’t see it as duty because she truly loves my dad. Even now, when he is dead and buried.
My husband-then-boyfriend supported me through this. I would have breakdowns where I would call him just to cry. At the same time, I thought of breaking up so many times. Not because I didn’t love my him, but because the stress and sacrifice of caregiving made me spiral - what if he gets dementia? - or worse, what if I get dementia given that it seems to run in the family?
To love, in sickness and in health.
I was so afraid of not being able to keep up with this vow, if we get married.
Then I would cheer myself up with thoughts of how the probability exists of me dying young from the stress of caregiving or in a car accident, and how I can speed it along. For full disclosure, I recognise these are terribly unhealthy coping mechanisms, so I went to see a therapist for my suicidal ideation.
My husband-then-boyfriend saw me at my worst, and loves me anyways. And I cried a lot more because how can I break up and break the heart of someone who loves me so sincerely.
Then one day, there was a small whispered epiphany. What if neither of us gets dementia? Would I want to break up then? And if I get dementia, surely I can have a say for how I am to be cared for. I can be put in a home, and spare him the caregiving hell I was going through. Love doesn’t need to look like how my mum chose to care for my dad.
My husband-then-boyfriend and I began to have conversations on how we would like to be cared for in our old age. I am still adamant that he can put me in a home and live life, whereas he still thinks he prefers caring for me our shared home, but anyways, we have started this conversation. We recognise that our commitment to each other is a long-term affair.
A morbid conversation to have with your partner:
Have you thought about how you’ll care for each other when you grow old and ill? How would care look like for each of you?
This question also clarifies for me whether my partner is someone I want to grow old with.
And because he is, and because of all of the above he has done for me, I gained the courage to stick to the LDR, and also say yes to marriage.