Note: Today’s post was written by my mother, Jill Severson and edited by me.

This past Saturday I read Lane’s blog about his first date with my daughter-in-law. I’ve heard the story before, once as a wedding toast from his best man Al Cedeno. I enjoyed reading the story, especially the ending where Lane wrote, “and I have been holding her hand ever since.” He and my daughter-in-law make a very good couple and that statement has a long term feel to it. It’s an inherited feeling. He comes from a long line of “hand holding commitment.”

My parents recently had their sixty-second wedding anniversary. They got married when they were 19 and have been holding each others hands the whole time. My dad served in the military during the Korean War. He sometimes reflects that he was lucky during the war for two reasons. The first was because he had been a college athlete he was picked to play on the Army basketball team in Japan instead of being deployed to Korea where many of his friends from the same unit died. The second reason he feels lucky is because he had a good woman who waited for him to come home. One of the untold stories of war is how many army wives give up their hand holding commitment during the long periods of their husbands’s deployments.

Things aren’t easy for my parents right now. My mom struggles with Alzheimer’s. My sisters and I take turns being at the house to provide a an added sense of stability and assurance for her, especially at night when her world crashes. Something about the evening makes her more confused than she normally is. My mom isn’t alone. Medical professionals have a term for what she is experiencing: Sundowners. It is a common experience for folks with dementia and other forms of Alzheimer’s. Perhaps it is a symptom of fatigue or end of day stress. I wonder if the loss of daylight makes my mother feel closed into her apartment. With nothing else to focus on, she begins to question where she is. When she can’t put the pieces together to answer that question she freaks out. Primarily she wants to go home.

I was born and grew up in a house on the east side of Elgin just a few blocks from where my Dad’s painting company was located. My brother now lives in that house with my sister-in-law. While my kids were growing up my parents lived on an idyllic five acre farm west of Elgin. Their nearest neighbors were within seeing but not hearing distance. As they grew older the upkeep on that home became unmanageable. They sold the farm to a couple who now raise alpaca where my kids once had birthday parties and searched for Easter eggs. They moved into a condo in my neighborhood for several years. But when their health declined they moved into an apartment facility for the elderly. When evening comes and my mother demands to be taken home, one can only wonder where that would be for her. At times she even says “of course, Bud (her brother) and Dad are gone now.” Does she want to return to her childhood home?

Sunday night my husband and I watched the Super Bowl with my parents. My dad has been a life long sports fan but mom wasn’t interested in the game. She knows its football but it was getting dark and she was getting anxious.

She would like to go home please, she starts to plead. Could someone help her get her coat and take her home? She doesn’t know what this place is (her apartment) but would we please just take her home ? She’s tired. It’s starts slowly with these questions. At first they are addressed generally to the room. Then to me and my husband. She gets frustrated at our explanations or diversions. “ACK” she cries with full German disgust. But as her anxiety turns to frustration the request centers in on her husband. Why won’t he take her home?

Two years ago my dad had his voice box removed because of cancer so it is very difficult for him to even speak one or two words. He is a captive witness with no means of comforting his frightened, sick wife. My mother is confused. She can’t remember the surgery. “Why won’t you talk to me?” He shakes his head back and forth. This makes her angrier. “He just shakes his head and never talks to me,” She shouts to the room. She calls him selfish, uncaring, and a host of hurtful words and names. My Dad’s eyes are misting. He’s a tough man. Strong language is not foreign to this old Norwegian painting contractor. But he understands what she is really saying: “I don’t know what’s going on! Why can’t you help me understand what’s going on.” That’s what really breaks his heart.

This process lasts about an hour and a half and ends with my Mom deciding that she could spend the night here (her home). She turns as sweet as she had been horrid. “You poor man,” she tells my Dad. “Swede, you are a good man, we can stay here can’t we? We’ll be fine for tonight.” She goes to her room and gets ready for bed. Coming to my Dad one last time before retiring she puts her hands on each arm of his chair, gets her face about a foot from his, and with the most endearing look asks,

“Do you have something to say to me?”

“I love you,” he mouths.

“I love you too,” she replies. And then goes to bed.

A love that lasts a lifetime. So ingrained that even the loss of memory and voice can not touch it.