“I knew so many beautiful words which are no longer available to me.”
– A note from Julian Davidson, dated July 1991 (80)

In 1990, Julian Davidson, a Professor of Physiology at Stanford Medical School, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease at the age of fifty-nine. His wife, Ann, a speech pathologist, did all in her power to love Julian until his death on December 31, 2001. Ann recounts her experience in A Curious Kind of Widow: Loving a Man with Advanced Alzheimer’s.

From 1990 to 1995, Ann personally cared for Julian as his condition degenerated. Throughout this period, Julian fluctuated from zombie-like behavior to erratic constant chatter – a result of his physician’s attempts to find the right balance of medications.

One episode poignantly communicated the tragedy of Julian’s deteriorating situation. One afternoon, while listening to a familiar Yiddish song from his childhood, Julian broke out into an embarrassed cry (a combination of tears and laughter). Ann consoled him, “It is okay to cry, Julian. It’s good to cry.” Julian responded, “Gone. All gone” (51).

Julian eventually forgot how to enter a car, use a toilet, or even go to bed. Ann patiently had to guide him through all of these activities – at times with little success. At one point, Julian crawls on his hands and knees around the living room, pressed close to the wall for five hours.

In spite of the challenges of caring for Julian, Ann found it hard to let go of Julian. After thirty-five years of marriage, Julian was a familiar presence. A number of times, Ann describes being consoled by Julian’s warm embrace in bed, even though she knows that his condition is reaching a crisis point.

And yet, in the midst of these difficult years, there are tender moments. Repeatedly, when Julian first encounters Ann in the morning, he cries out, “Oh, it’s you. It’s you. I love you. Oh, I love you so much.” Although he never mentions her name, his affection is true. Ann recounts to her physician: “As soon as he finds me each morning, he walks straight to me with open arms and tells me he loves me… These are not bad words for him to go out on” (187). She explains to her doctor the reason for her strength, “It’s all about love. The only way I can do this is with love. I can’t explain. I’m grateful to feel so much still coming from him” (187).

Finally the strain of caring for Julian overwhelmed Ann and she placed him in managed care. She recounts her talk with Julian on the day she took him to his new home:

Julian lies in our bed, smelling of shampoo and shaving lotion, sweet, relaxed, peaceful. So innocent and unsuspecting.

I sit beside him and stroke his hair, my heart aching, wondering what I can say to him, whether or not to try to explain.

“You’re a wonderful man,” I begin. “A wonderful man.”

Julian beams. “You too,” he says, looking straight at me, his blue eyes clear and shining.

“I love you so much. You’re my darling husband. I’ll always love you.” Tears trickle down my cheeks, the words catch in my throat.

Julian looks at me and smiles. “Yes, yes,” he says. “Yes.”

“I’ll always take care of you, Julian.” I choose my words carefully. “Only I may need some help.” (200)

Ann was true to her word. Her visits to Julian remained a constant part of her life until his death.

Although Ann initially wrestled with her decision to place Julian in a home, it became obvious over time that this was the best thing for Julian. She describes one visit when Julian exploded with affection upon her arrival: “he takes my hand and kisses it, throwing back his head, laugh. His hand softly strokes my hair, tenderly, his blue eyes blazing with affection” (251). She describes these rare moments as “[o]ccasional astounding insights [that] burst forth through the snarls of his dementia, precious gifts to catch and cherish” (251). The moment caused Ann to cry. Julian responded, “Don’t cry. I’m okay. Really, I’m okay!” (251)

The Present, Fleeting Moment

Can one love when the object of one’s love is only capable of limited response – at best, a brief moment of recognition immediately followed by forgetfulness? Is love only real in the context of a remembered past and hopeful future, or can love be just as real when it only exists in the present moment?

Ann reflects on the uselessness of the phrase, “Remember when…” The truth is clear: “Of course he doesn’t remember” (202). “Remember” becomes a futile word for the victim of Alzheimer’s – but not for the compassionate caregiver.

In one of the most beautiful passages in the book, Ann reflects on how she came to terms with loving Julian in the present, fleeting moment:

Driving home, along slick freeways, I ponder this hour with Julian, dancing and singing together. I love and am loved, even still. We have surely communicated intimately, despite the terrible damage done to him by Alzheimer’s, despite the fact that he lives in a dementia unit and can barely talk. Some essential Julian is still present, intensely alive. We are deeply connected, though I still struggle to accept him as he is, and am learning to let go, not to need him. In my visits, I try just to be there. It is hard to explain, but when I can join him in the present moment – no words or thoughts of past or future, no regrets, no expectations, and no fear – that moment is fine. (258)

We see an illustration of this love in a precious moment Ann and Julian share. One day, before lunch, they begin humming melancholy tunes together. They then move on to livelier tunes. The lucid moment climaxes as they break out in laughter and dance together in joy, concluding with a slow dance to Ann’s humming of “Blue Moon.” They laugh together and kiss one another until lunch time. Ann then leads him to the lunch table in the dining room, “where he immediately begins eating lasagna, never noticing me leave” (258).

I am deeply grateful for this book. Ann shows great courage and strength in her love for Julian. Even more, she honors the value, worth, and dignity of Julian until the very end. She is a “curious kind of widow” who is truly a glorious kind of wife. God bless you, Ann! You’re a saint!

Quotes excerpted from A Curious Kind of Widow: Loving a Man with Advanced Alzheimer's by Ann Davidson
© Richard J. Vincent, 2006