Jack has always been stubborn. I knew that when I married him. At times, due to his dementia, he digs in his heels so hard that not even God can budge him. I am slowly learning to take a deep breath at those times and let him be.

Jack’s stubbornness is his biggest curse. Conversely, it is also his strongest asset. During his more lucid times, he is aware of what he’s losing, so he digs in his heels, determined not to let the dementia win. He fights against the confusion as hard as he can, vowing that he will subdue the Gremlin once and for all. That HE will win. That he will be able to drive again, and not have to depend on others. This is his ultimate goal.

I have promised him that I will do all I can to help him. I don’t always have the same faith in the outcome, but I won’t tell him that. My job, as I see it (and I know job is a poor term) is to help him remain independent for as long as he possibly can, in any way that I think may help him.

I’ve been told more than once that all my efforts will come to nothing. I’ve been assured that all I have to look forward to is a long, slow downward spiral. I don’t deny that’s possible. But when I’m sitting with Jack in the trailer and he tells me he wants to get better, then all bets are off. I will never tell him that fighting this won’t work.

Last week, Tim (Jack’s care person) quietly pointed out to me that Jack couldn’t remember how to make letters. Jack was signing a backlog of paperwork left by the previous care person (which involved writing his initials multiple times); and each time Tim had to show him where to write. He also had to show him HOW to write. He finally made a J and an A on a separate piece of paper for Jack to copy. This helped. But he then had to help Jack write and spell his name. Jack was both embarrassed and shocked, because he had no idea that this ability had left him. I hadn’t realized it either.

The next day, after we had finished lunch, Jack blurted out, “I need you to help me with my writing. I can’t remember how to write.” I wasn’t sure exactly what he needed, so I got a piece of paper and put it in front of him.

“Do you want to try writing the letters first?” I asked. Jack nodded. “Okay. Write an A…now write a B…”

We got as far as G and Jack drew a blank. “I can’t remember how to do it.” he said, looking anxious. His entire body was tense and he was holding his breath.

“It’s okay, darling. This isn’t a test. We’re just exploring what you can do so we know where to start.” I reassured him. Jack nodded, some of his anxiety fading.

“But I still can’t remember.” he said. “It was there and now it’s all gone. Why can’t I remember?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he added, “I can’t talk either and I don’t know why. I was better before. I need to go back to that place so I can learn to talk again.” He meant the speech therapist. “She wasn’t great but she helped me. I have to get better.”

“Well—” I began. Then I thought of something, and picked up my phone. “Hang on—I have an idea.” I was already doing a search on Amazon. Everything his speech therapist had used in their half an hour a week sessions was available to buy. And I had much more than half an hour a week. “I can get everything she had and we can practice right here. Would you like that?” Jack nodded.

“I have to get better.” he said. “I want to talk right again so I can drive.”

Everything I need will be here Monday. I ordered sets of flash cards, a set of story cards (to practice sequencing), a magnetic whiteboard with magnetic words for making sentences, and more. Jack is all excited because he will be learning to talk again. I’m excited because I found another way to help him.

I am well aware that this isn’t a permanent solution. But it is a solution that works for now. It’s another tool in my arsenal of ways to help Jack maintain his independence. As long as he is determined to fight, I will be fighting right beside him.