Gene Bloom and I were married three months after meeting at our 10th high school reunion. He was a dentist and I had begun my career as a lobbyist. My career was an accident, his was intentional. He would ultimately spend his working years in dentistry, joining the State Board of Dental Examiners, travelling to test future dentists, and teaching at the University. He was a great dentist: gentle, caring, and precise. But dentistry would bow his once straight posture and his body would weaken. Dentistry aged him prematurely.
My career as a lobbyist filled a decade. I loved it until I became too close to being part of it. I liked the role of the outsider pushing boundaries and fighting for whatever I deemed as righteous: women’s rights, animal protection, public safety. When I left the legislature, I moved into the non-profit sector and loved my forty years within it. I retired and began consulting, left consulting. and then began again as a volunteer which is what I am today.
We began our marriage with great passion that fizzled rather quickly. But there was something else that brought us together and bonded us for nearly 50 years. It was a partnership. Support. Encouragement. Trust. Laughter. Common values. We led separate lives professionally, but we were always there for one another for the ancillary events: awards, fundraising dinners, and the many parties, weddings and special events held in our ever-expanding garden. GB never failed to get up at dawn to help me set up tents, lighting, tables. And he was there at 3 am for the tear down. I attended all his award dinners and watched proudly as he slowly walked to the dais to receive his accolades. Slow walking enabled him to look around the room and see smiling faces focused on him. I was the opposite on awards. I took them, said “Thank you” and left. No speeches. Sit down. Look at my shoes.
He was my support. He was the half of me that didn’t operate off instinct, disruptiveness and impulse. As I was so certain of his continued presence in my life, I didn’t notice when he had begun to slip away. Perhaps it was after a hike on Kenosha Pass when he couldn’t make it to the rest room. “Stop the car!” he shouted. “I have to go to the bathroom”. I stopped the car and watched as he ran across the road. He returned with the stain on his pants. He hadn’t made it in time. Was it prostate cancer? He began visiting specialists. Prescriptions did nothing. The condition worsened. Finally, an electrical implant to help curb the symptoms was placed. It worked, then didn’t. It needed adjusting, which GB could do with a remote control. He’d forget to use it.
Then there was his gait. His once bouncy cheerful walk was being replaced by a shuffling movement. A neighbor called and said she was concerned about his walking. She’d seen him walk the Newfs every day and he seemed increasingly unstable. I had noticed it as well. I began doing what I had seen my mother do to my father (and to no avail): nagging him to lift his feet. Heel toe. Heel toe. I’d remind him endlessly. “I’m working on it” he’d say. God, I hated that expression of his. Working on it. What the hell did that mean?
We carried on, pretending nothing was changing. And so, in that vein, we met Lind and David for a trip through Olympic National Park. As we were hiking up a trail, GB began to topple over the edge. Linda caught him. No damage. David walked him back to the lodge. The following day we rented kayaks and canoes. We began rowing on Lake Quinault and became separated from Linda and David. GB’s arms became weakened, and I took over the oars. As I was rowing, GB partially stood up to resettle himself and the canoe flipped over. We both were wearing life jackets, but the water was cold and the lake waters choppy. I grabbed a rope at the front of the boat and yelled to GB to grab the other rope. I thought he had. I swam across the lake to the shore while towing the boat. When I came ashore, I looked back only to discover GB was still in the middle of the lake. Fortunately, a man on the other side of the lake had seen what had happened and he jumped in to rescue GB. Once on shore, GB couldn’t walk. The man and I carried him up the steep embankment. Our rescuer got his truck and took us back to the Lake Quinault Lodge.
The following year, we decided on a Christmas trip to Mexico City and the Yucatán with Linda and David. GB’s walking was slow and shuffling but he kept up. The hiking was easy so no trips or falls. We stayed in a house in Merida. I was happy to shop for food in the local markets. So I stocked up on fruits and veggies. The house was a beautiful two suite set-up. One suite attached to the dining and living room. The other suite was separated from the main house by a courtyard and pool. Stairs led to a roof-top patio where we could watch New Year’s Eve fireworks. One day we visited a nonprofit I had discovered called Kaxikiuic. This NGO had multiple missions including preserving the Maya culture and documenting the movements of big cats and other wildlife in the area. The Executive Director, an American born man, was the founder and visionary for the organization. He was ecstatic that I had discovered him (I was looking at Google Maps to see if there were any wildlife refuges near Merida and found Kaxikiuic). He sent a driver to fetch us for the two-hour trek into the Maya wilderness. The tour included a hike, slide show, talk with the executive director and other volunteers and then a traditional Maya lunch: a chicken stew with vegetables.
Was it the lunch or simply that the veggies and fruits I bought were tainted? At 3 am I was awakened by GB who had become violently sick in the bathroom. He had a severe bout of explosive diarrhea. He was too weak to clean it up himself. I think we were both mortified and humiliated by the experience. I found a mop and a bucket. I spent the next hour cleaning the walls, floor, shower, toilet, and washbasin of the bathroom. I fell back to sleep around 4:30 am only to wake up to my own distress. Linda and David’s symptoms developed the following day.
I understood we had poisoned ourselves and that we’d all be fine. But I couldn’t get one thing out of my mind: why couldn’t GB make it to the bathroom in time. The rest of us were as sick but there were no disasters.
Other than that, there were no major issues. No signs of what was to happen to GB’s health. We extended our trip by about four days due to Covid-related airline issues. We found a guide in Mexico City who was an expert on Diego Rivera and we spent hours learning about his murals. In all, it was a good trip.
As Covid came and went, GB’s health slowly deteriorated. I noticed not only an increase in the incontinence but a significant inability to walk without shuffling; to walk without falling. His body stiffened. I suggested stretching. He said it hurt. I suggested going back to yoga. He said it hurt. And, as I was getting used to the shuffling and the constant need to purchase adult diapers, I noticed a change in his cognition. He couldn’t follow simple shows wherein characters moved through time. He couldn’t keep characters straight. He’d ask the same questions. Over and over.
He was tested. Mild cognitive impairment. Parkinsonism. Maybe hydrocephalus. Maybe Alzheimer’s. Dementia. What kind? Did it matter? Physical therapy ordered. Memory therapy ordered. He’d return from each appointment ready to fight. Then nothing. GB was not compliant. He sat when he should have moved.
He sat.
He read. He did on-line jig-saw puzzles.
I fumed. Who was this person? This man who loved to hike. Grabbed a pair of snowshoes and took off on a trail just a few years back. Used to bike with friends in Utah? Persevered at the dental chair and was always the last one out of the building. The man whose students adored him.
Last year, in 2023, I planned a trip to Israel with my cousin, Cindy. I thought GB wouldn’t be able to handle the trip but he insisted.
This was our last trip. We arrived in Tel Aviv where we rented a two bedroom apartment. We were within walking distance of restaurants, beaches, shops, and neighborhoods. GB couldn’t walk around the corner for breakfast. His incontinence was uncontrollable. A few days later we were in Haifa and he became so weak we considered admitting him to a hospital. The decision was made to fly him back to Colorado. I remained in Israel while he was cared for by our friends Karen and Joe. They met him at the airport and took him immediately to the ER. He was released and sent home.
I guess I knew this would be our last trip. The previous treks, drives, adventures, hikes, safaris, cultural meanderings, ferries, islands, shark dives, cenotes, beaches, rocky shores, African water holes, deserts, farms, back-roads, castles, markets, dogs, horses, strange looking cattle, goats, sheep, wildlife, urban dog parks, Michilin starred restaurants, street food, flights, being lost, exploring coastlines,sand the simple joy of Aspen turning in Autumn. All we had loved together would now be loved by only one of us. Would it all be forgotten by the other?
As 2024 was ushered in, his body continued to challenge him. He fell and tore his Achilles tendon. He refused surgery and for the following year, he blamed his shuffling on a torn Achilles tendon. Every so often he’d try to move. He took a walk but fell on his face in the middle of the street. Neighbors called an ambulance and came for me. A few weeks later, he was walking up the stairs and lost his balance at the top. He fell to the bottom, gasping for breath. His broken ribs took a couple of months to heal.
His body had now completely turned against him. Even when he found the gumption to try, his body forced a dead-stop.
He was turning to stone.
The only possibility for improvement was informed by the hydrocephalus diagnosis. It alone accounted for the three major symptoms: incontinence, imbalance, and cognitive decline. The remedy was insertion of a shunt to drain the liquid from around the brain. A temporary shunt would be placed and if there was progress in walking, a permanent shunt would be inserted in the brain. The excess liquid would be continually drained via a tube that dumped into. . . somewhere, I have no clue. Ah! Thank you Google: “These shunts drain the CSF into the peritoneal cavity, the atrium, or the pleura; thus, appropriately called ventriculoperitoneal, ventriculoatrial, and ventriculopleural shunts. A shunt consists of a ventricular catheter that is connected to a valve and then connected to a distal catheter.”
And that takes us to today. To Monday November 19, 2024. The surgery is Monday. By Tuesday we may know if the diagnosis was on target. If there will be any progress.
We may know something then. I may know if my husband will continue to disappear or whether I’ll get some of him back.
How much do I want back? Perhaps just enough for a walk with the dogs. Just around the block. Maybe that’s all I want. Maybe that’s all he wants.
I don’t know.
Air. 
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