Death Not Do Us Part: A Craft Essay by Mark Tulin

While Jamie and Matt is a fictional story about an isolated older couple living in a California desert community, it’s also about my fears of growing older and losing my mind to dementia. My grandfather and mother had dementia, so I know what that looks like. I don't mind losing my youthful appearance, like hair or teeth—but my mind is sacred.

Since women live longer than men, maybe they embrace old age better. Older women like Jamie are some of the strongest people on the planet. I admire these relentless caretakers who maintain a household, articulate their needs, and cope with stressful events. That is why marriage especially benefits men. While men tend to deteriorate, women maintain their mental resolve and keep their families afloat.

Writing a story about this couple was a way to ease my fears and understand difficult late-life issues. Jamie's dedication as a caretaker is inspiring but ill-advised. She is working on overload, faced with an insurmountable task of caring for a husband with dementia and PTSD. I would lose my cool in that situation, say the wrong things, and probably burn out as a caretaker. I don't want to lose my independence and spend my remaining years picking up a fallen spouse from a chair.

Aging is not something you can prepare for. I complain a lot about my increasing health issues and navigating through the Medicare maze. Doctors are a pain, and I have spent many hours in their waiting rooms reading outdated People Magazines. So, I don't plan on living to a hundred like Matt. It's not in my DNA. My father died in his mid-seventies, and my mother made it to 85, both in better health than me at my age.

When I was a mental health therapist, I worked with several war vets who suffered from PTSD. Those horrific combat experiences are permanent wounds that are layered in the subconscious and easily triggered. Many vets with PTSD experience flashbacks and re-experience their war trauma. Nothing is more terrifying than believing you are back in the combat zone, only a few feet away from bombs exploding. Couple this with dementia, and your reality is severely distorted. Imagine being 100, having dementia, and also PTSD. Those were Matt's challenges. Living to a hundred is almost like living past your allotted time. You're playing with house money—which is good for a gambler, but not when simple chores in life are painstakingly difficult or impossible. It must be surreal to experience the century mark and even stranger when you suffer from dementia.

We take many things for granted when we are young. We haven't the slightest clue that we will lose many of them one day. We don't want to believe that we will be unable to work anymore or take care of ourselves. Our minds may still desire to be productive, but our bodies won't cooperate. It's an inner conflict that older people need to resolve to make their later years less stressful. 

I remember my mother when she had dementia. She reached a point where she was tired of living and wanted to escape her nursing home. When she was unable to, she withdrew emotionally and physically. Without independence and without a reason to live, death was her only reprieve, so she rolled up in bed and never left. 

I admire Matt and Jamie’s loyalty to one another. Loyalty and trust are synonymous with a good and lengthy marriage. You marry someone who will go to war with you and have your back. There's no greater love than when someone sticks with you through thick and thin. However, if I developed dementia, I would want my wife to get more help than Jamie or find a nursing home for both of us. 

Jamie and Matt’s story inspired me to reflect on the meaning of love. Is true love so self-sacrificing that one can’t imagine living without one's partner? Taken further: Is a partner’s death so devastating that you don’t want to go on living? Jamie and Matt’s narrative made me ponder how my own story would conclude. If I go before my wife, I want her grief to be brief and for her to continue to live a fruitful life. I don’t want her loss to immobilize her or overshadow our beautiful memories. And if my wife goes first, I wish her final moments to be peaceful and in a familiar setting, surrounded by loving people.