Loving Muriel Seen summers ago, Muriel and I began our journey into the twilight. It’s midnight now, at least for her, and sometimes I wonder when dawn will break. Even the dreadful Alzheimer’s disease isn’t supposed to attack so early and torment so long. Yet, in her silent world, Muriel is so content, so lovable. If she were to die, how I would miss her gentle, sweet presence. Yes, there are times when I get irritated, but not often. It doesn’t make sense to get angry. A young friend recently asked me, “Don’t you ever get tired?” “Tired? Every night. That’s why I go to bed.” “No, I mean tired of ...” and she turned her head toward Muriel, who sat silently in her wheelchair, her vacant eyes saying, “No one at home just now.” I responded to my friend, “Why, no, I don’t get tired. I love to care for her. She’s precious.” Love is said to evaporate if the relationship is not mutual, if it’s not physical, if the other person doesn’t communicate or if one party doesn’t carry his or her share of the load. When I hear the list of essentials for a happy marriage, I count off what my beloved can no longer contribute, and then I consider how truly mysterious love is. What some people find so hard to understand is that loving Muriel isn’t hard. They wonder about my former loves — like my work. “Do you miss being president?” a university student asked as we sat in our little garden. I told him I’d never thought about it, but, on reflection, no. As exciting as my work had been, I enjoyed learning to cook and keep house. No, I’d never looked back. But that night I did reflect on his question and prayed, “I like this assignment, and I have no regrets. But if a coach puts a man on the bench, he must not want him in the . You needn’t tell me, of course, but I’d like to know — why didn’t you keep me in the ?” I didn’t sleep well that night and awoke thinking about the puzzle. Muriel was still mobile at that time, so we set out on our morning walk around the block. She wasn’t too sure on her feet, so we went slowly and held hands as we always do. This day I heard footsteps behind me and looked back to see the familiar form of a local derelict ( 流浪汉 ) behind us. He staggered past us, then turned and looked us up and down. “Tha’s good. I likes ’at,” he said. “That’s real good. I likes it.” He turned and headed back down the street, mumbling to himself over and over, “Tha’s good. I likes it.” When Muriel and I reached our little garden and sat down, his words came back to me. God had spoken through a drunken old derelict. People ask me, “How do you do it?” Praise helps — Muriel is a joy to me, and life is good to both of us, in different ways. And we have family and friends who care for us lovingly. Memories help, too. Muriel stocked the cupboard of my mind with the best of them. I often live again a special moment of love she planned or laugh at some remembered outburst of her optimistic approach to life. Sometimes the happiness doesn’t bubble up with joy but rains down gently with tears. The pain is part of the happiness. That’s the deal. Muriel hasn’t spoken a coherent word in months — years, if you mean a sentence, a conversation — though occasionally she tries, mumbling nonwords. Would I never hear that voice again? Then came February 14, 1995. Valentine’s Day was always special at our house because that was the day in 1948 that Muriel accepted my marriage proposal. On the eve of Valentine’s Day in 1995, I bathed Muriel, kissed her good night and whispered a prayer over her, “Dear Lord, you love sweet Muriel more than I, so please keep my beloved through the night; may she hear the angel choirs.” The next morning I was riding on my exercise bike at the foot of her bed and thinking about some of our happy lovers’ days long gone while Muriel slowly emerged from sleep. Finally, she popped awake and, as she often does, smiled at me. Then, for the first time in months she spoke, calling out to me in a voice as clear as a crystal chime, “Love ... love ... love.” I jumped from my cycle and ran to embrace her. “Honey, you do love me, don’t you?” Holding me with her eyes and patting my back, she responded with the only words she could find to say yes. “I’m nice,” she said. Tha’s good. I likes it.