Driving my spouse to the afterlife

On the drive over we talked about clouds.

The sky was full of low, puffy clouds, bright white and round on top, flat and gray on the bottom. Row after row of them stretched out in front of us, as if a person could hop from one to the next, to the next, all the way to the afterlife.

Which is where we were heading.

Although, that is not what I had told her.

She had been having trouble with her back, so I said we were going to get some therapy, and that if it helped we could go to a bookstore, one of her favorite places, though reading now was beyond her.

She hadn’t been agreeable to much lately, but for this she was willing to go with me in the car. And now we were headed to the great beyond, which for her could be reached by automobile.

Those of us who love her and know her best are not permitted to say she died.

That is because everyone else seems to believe there is only one type of death.

'She's too young for this'

She had been an athlete, a star student, a bold and adventurous woman who had carved out a career, gotten married, had children, grandchildren. She had read three books a week, interviewed authors, wrote articles and profiles for newspapers and magazines all over the country.

Now it was as if the words in each printed sentence had been pulled apart and placed in a jar and shaken and spilled on a table, leading her often to simply tear up the page.

Still, we are not permitted to say there has been a death in the family.

And this is not a eulogy.

By the time the dementia was diagnosed, years ago, her lifelong self-confidence already had been eroded by anxiety. The woman who loved learning about finance and enjoyed – really – doing the family books, was having trouble with simple math.

“I’m so sorry,” the doctor whispered to me. “She’s too young for this.”

Her knowledge was deep and wide

She had been raised in the East, but knew when she moved to the Southwest that this would be home. She could look at a piece of turquoise and tell you where it had been mined. She had written enough about Native American artists to recognize the maker of a bracelet or a ring by the weight of the silver, the delicate placement of stones, the subtle marks of the hammer.

She hated to cook, but she designed and helped build a kitchen for her husband.

She transformed a grassy, Midwestern-looking yard into a desert landscape, enjoying the work so much that on her next birthday she asked for, and received, a chainsaw.

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She could speak to the erosion that created the Grand Canyon, the sandstone buttes of Monument Valley or the giant, hollowed-out rocks in Papago Park.

She was a fierce and dedicated and loving mom.

But that was eroded by the disease

But all of that knowledge, all of her memories, were eroded by the wind and rain and ice of the disease, leaving only confusion, frustration, anger and loss. And a vulnerability to ailments that, any day, could lead to what most people would call a “real” death. Which already threatens her. And which she would welcome, if she were alive.

Again and again she’d ask me, “Are you married?”

I’d say I was.

“For how long?” she wondered.

I’d say a long time.

She would pause and add, “Is your wife happy?”

I would smile and change the subject to something like the clouds we spoke about on the way to the afterlife.

Old life over, a new one begun

Her particular version of the hereafter wasn’t too far away from where we lived, reachable by automobile. And it is a lovely place, as each of us hopes for, eventually, in a celestial accommodation.

A number of good and gracious souls (angels) welcomed her, escorting her through the front gate to begin a new life.

The old one is over.

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She could quote from memory six or seven W.B. Yeats poems. She knew how to sew a quilt and where in the Valley to get the best homemade blueberry pie. She was willing to sit through all nine innings of a baseball game, as long as the beer (or white wine) and salted peanuts held out.

But those of us who love her and know her best are not permitted to say she died.

So there has been no church service. No music (Bach’s cello "Suite No. 1 in G Major," Leo Kottke’s “Snorkel”). No readings (Raymond Carver’s “Late Fragment,” Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 116”). No long procession of automobiles. No large gathering of mourners. No flowers. No reception.

There was no funeral.

And this is not a eulogy.

EJ Montini is a news columnist at The Arizona Republic/azcentral.com, where this column originally appeared. Follow him on Twitter: @ejmontini