I’d been single about a year, and romance was the last thing on my mind when I met Bob Rowland.
It was 2010, I’d been out riding with the local biking scene and Bob, then 58, and I quickly bonded over this mutual passion. A few weeks on, he offered me a room as a lodger with him.
I’d upheaved my entire life moving from Plymouth to Southport for a fresh start and had been temporarily staying with another friend. I was so grateful for Bob’s kindness.
That was Bob – so generous and funny, too. I’d had some really unhappy relationships in the past and Bob was so refreshingly full of fun. But, he was 17 years older than me and I hesitated in letting myself fall for him.
I guess you could say we were ‘friends with benefits’ for a while – we slept together after we’d had a few drinks one night – and had a really great time.
We shared so many laughs and trips out together as mates, that I grew closer to him and started caring for him deeply.
But we didn’t make our relationship ‘official’ because we’d both been through a lot and I wanted to tread carefully.
Then, one afternoon in 2012, Bob was rushed to hospital having been violently sick – unknown to us at the time, he’d ruptured his oesophagus and had a 6cm tear in it. He ended up in a coma, battling sepsis, and we very nearly lost him.
Docs weren’t sure he’d pull through and, keeping vigil at his bedside, it was the jolt I needed to realise that Bob was everything I’d wanted.
When he came round, I told him how much I loved him and was delighted to hear the feeling was mutual.
We married in June 2013 and it was such an emotional, happy day to celebrate his survival, as well as our love.
We had a biker themed do; I arrived on a Harley-Davidson trike while Bob’s best man rode him in on another, which gave everyone a reason to smile.
Bob had long-term mobility problems following the damage to his extremities caused by sepsis; he used a walking stick during our wedding, and still had a long road to recovery, I knew that.
But he had always been very affectionate and romantic; we’d cuddle and hold hands every day.
We’d previously enjoyed a passionate sex life – he knew how to press all the right buttons.
I’d known he was ill when we got hitched but I didn’t expect that sex between us would grind to a halt entirely. Sadly, it did, and I didn’t want to force the issue or make him feel upset.
In the weeks after our wedding, though, I soon noticed Bob was behaving oddly. Either forgetting or using inappropriate words. He often told me he loved me but one day he said: ‘I love you puffer-fish!’ instead of ‘Tracy.’
We laughed about it, but he had no idea where it had come from.
Then, Bob began moving further away from me when we sat on the couch – as if he disliked being touched – and he wouldn’t explain why.
At first, I blamed myself when he got grouchy and irritable for no reason. Confused, I couldn’t figure out why his personality was changing and he was rejecting any intimacy with me. It was hurtful.
So I insisted that Bob saw a doctor, who at first thought Bob was depressed. But after tests, he was diagnosed with early onset dementia. He was then 61, and we’d been married just over a year.
We were devastated. Hearing the diagnosis, Bob said to me: ‘I want you to leave me and find someone else before you become my carer.’
It was heart-breaking to hear and I refused to walk out on him. Despite all our challenges, I love him and I assured him of that.
It feels so cruel that I’d been waiting all my life to meet my soul-mate only to be in what is now a platonic friendship. It’s tough, I’ll admit that, because I have needs too
Still, it was very difficult to cope and as the years have worn on, he’s been proved right.
The ‘old Bob’, as I call him, is disappearing before my eyes and I’m his carer rather than what it means to be a wife.
It feels so cruel that I’d been waiting all my life to meet my soulmate, only to be in what is now a platonic friendship. It’s tough, I’ll admit that, because I have needs too.
Previously full of vigour, Bob now sleeps for 15 hours a day, forgets things he’s done after 10 minutes, but has a clear memory of events from over 20 years ago before I knew him. Occasionally he’s called me by his first wife’s name, which cuts deep, but I know he can’t help it.
Bob has to Google everything because he can’t remember how to do things he wouldn’t have thought twice about; he once spent several days trying to change our kitchen tap when previously it would have taken him an hour.
Even simple acts like making a cup of tea – he’ll forget you need to put in a tea bag or whether he takes sugar – and often gets angry if I try to help him.
The pandemic hit us particularly hard. Bob couldn’t attend his hospital and clinic appointments, and he became isolated.
Soon after his diagnosis, we made an ‘end of life’ plan for Bob which nearly destroyed me to think about, and he has assigned me Lasting Power Of Attorney over his finances.
For now, Bob is able to make his own decisions about his care, but we are preparing the paperwork to assign me to make these decisions in the future.
I spoke to Bob about sharing our story, and he agreed. He wants others to learn the reality of living with dementia; he feels the frustrations more than I ever will.
Though we don’t know how long Bob has left, for dementia cannot be predicted, I’m determined to make as many memories as possible. Even if he won’t remember them – I’ll cherish them.
Before our wedding, we’d talked about travelling and exploring the world together, but we left it too late and that’s a bitter truth to swallow. He has limited quality of life, but he is my husband and I will always be there for him, despite how lonely I feel at times.
It really isn’t about sex, though. Most of all, I miss a cuddle on the couch, or the little affectionate kiss he used to give me every morning.
Often, he’d sneak up behind me and tickle me. I long for those moments to return but, sadly, they won’t.
He’s deteriorated rapidly this year – he can no longer eat or dress without help – and he can’t be left alone. He needs a wheelchair when we go out and the adventurous biker I fell for is all but gone.
It’s painful as I’m grieving for him, and yet he’s still here. He’s slowly leaving me and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Knowing that one day he’ll forget me completely leaves me sobbing often. With the pandemic restrictions, I’m relying on phone conversations with friends and my mum for support but it’s not the same.
My happiness has been ripped away, strip by strip. I feel like there is nothing left of our old life and that I’m disappearing with him sometimes. When you’re a carer your own life’s no longer the priority.
I want any other carers to know that feeling this way doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, it means you’re human.
One day, in a lucid moment, Bob said: ‘I’m still me. I’m still me underneath,’ and I still see flashes of my old Bob occasionally.
The sound of his laughter when he does remember some good times still makes my heart sing, and that’s what keeps me strong.
As told to Joe Cusack.
Source: Read Full Article