The night before Al and I were married, he called and said, “Honey, I have to remind you of something one more time: I'm eighteen years older than you, and someday you'll have to take care of me.”

“Our age difference doesn't change anything for me,” I said. Even if I had known then that Alzheimer's disease, not age, would cause Al to need me as his caregiver, I would not have wanted to miss being his wife.

In 1965 we were transferred to the Midwest, where Al was regional commissioner for Social Security. After thirty-five years of government service, Al said, “I want to retire while I love my job.” We moved to his hometown and built a house.

Al believed that if we were able to nail two boards together, we could build a house. We bought plans and then altered them to fit our needs. With Al's encouragement, I learned how to do plumbing and wiring. I even helped him put shingles on the roof—on a windy day!

Al was always encouraging me to learn everything I possibly could—from building a house to understanding what was wrong with the car. He seemed to always be preparing me for life.

In the summer of 1977, we were at Silver Dollar City, an 1880s theme park, and Al was fascinated with a hammer dulcimer being played. I thought to myself, That's neat, and went on. But Al thought a dulcimer would make a great Christmas gift for one of our sons. “Why don't you get one too?” he said. “Come on, honey, I think you need it.”

Reluctantly I said okay. I now jokingly tell people that playing the dulcimer and teaching others to play became so much a part of my life that I had to give up dusting, vacuuming, and laundry.

Al and I traveled to six nursing homes every month where I would play for the residents. Soon requests for me to play at a church, a museum, and then a store came in.

We bought a trailer and started traveling to festivals all over the country. I began to notice that Al was having problems with tasks such as loading our trailer and hooking it to our car. When I mentioned this to our doctor, he brushed me off, saying: “He's in his '70s. What do you expect?”

I made checklists for Al, and tried to discreetly follow behind him double-checking. I developed a network of friends wherever we went who watched him and kept him safe while I was on stage.

I kept insisting to the doctor that something was wrong. He finally referred Al to a neurologist. After tests and evaluations, Al, two of our sons, and I gathered for the diagnosis. The doctor was ninety-five percent sure that Al had Alzheimer's disease, a progressive form of dementia. The doctor told Al he should no longer drive.

Afterward in the parking lot, Al opened the driver's door to our car, and I thought, How am I going to handle this? Al handled it beautifully, taking me by the arm and helping me into the driver's seat. He handed me the keys and then walked around to the passenger's side. After getting in, he leaned over and kissed me. From that day on, he never tried to drive.

I was teaching in Morehead, Kentucky, for a week with Al right beside me. One morning I was helping a student and when I turned around, Al was gone. The students helped me search, and we finally found him. He had gone into a restroom but couldn't figure out how to open the door to leave. I knew that was the last of our travels.

I was fortunate enough to find a retired nurse to care for Al so that I could spend a few hours away from home. Leaving three pages of instructions just to satisfy myself, I would still call home several times just to check on Al. Once in awhile I was able to attend a music festival. Al encouraged me, saying: “Honey, you can do anything. Just get up every day and put one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward.”

And I did. Al was restless but never belligerent. One day while coaxing him to take his medicine, I asked, “Do you trust me?”

“Always,” he said.

“Then you have to trust that when I ask you to do something, it's all right.” That word trust got through his confusion and helped him to cooperate.

Music, prayer, meditation, and our sons kept me going. Yet sometimes I walked the floor crying because I was frustrated. I was angry—not with Al, but with the disease.

After Al had two surgeries—and cancer in his prostate had spread to his bones—I could no longer care for him at home.

We checked everywhere and thought we had found a good care center, but as it turned out, it was not. I received a call at six o'clock one morning and was told: “The ambulance is here, and we're sending Al to the emergency room. You'd better meet us there.” An aide had put out medication and walked away. Al thought it was his.

There were several instances when I would find Al during the day in pajamas and barefoot. I wanted good basic care for him, and I knew I couldn't leave this dear man in that place.

God works in mysterious ways. I took the afternoon off and went to a dulcimer meeting. While eating lunch, I asked the lady next to me, “Do you work?”

“I'm an administrator of a care center.”

When I asked if it had an Alzheimer's unit, she said yes, but there were no openings at that time. Two days later she called me and said, “A family is moving their dad in with them; we have a space.”

That was the answer to prayer. The staff at this care center and I worked as a team in caring for Al. I would bring him home for family dinners, but after awhile he couldn't handle that. I took him for a drive out in the country one day, but Al became restless, and I said, “Honey, what's the matter?”

“No people, no people,” he responded. So we turned around and drove back to the care center. When I got him inside, he looked around and said with relief, “People!”

At the end of the last concert of mine that Al was able to attend, he was sitting with a friend. I was saying thank-you's to the sound man, the people of the church, and others. Saving Al for last, I said, “I want to thank my husband for giving me love, joy, encouragement, and my first dulcimer.” Al stood up and I thought, Oh my goodness. He turned to the audience and bowed, and then he sat down.

I prayed for three things for Al: I prayed that he'd have good care, and I was there to see that he did. I prayed that he would be free from pain, and hospice took care of that. I prayed that I would be with him at the end, and I was.

Al so wanted me to play music. I felt I owed it to him as well as to myself. I have kept going, putting one foot in front of the other. People helped me a great deal, but I learned so many things on my own caring for Al. I feel there are some things I learned that others can use, so I'm writing a book. I feel the need to encourage others. I learned this in teaching people to play music. Encouraging them helped them understand that they could play. Maybe that's what I'm supposed to be—an encourager.

Al has been gone for eight years, and I miss him every day. But I'm so grateful for the memories. He was a wonderful husband.

When I sit down to play, music fills me with wonderful memories of Al. I received a letter from a woman who gave me a tremendous blessing when she said: “I went to all your concerts, but I never watched you. I received great joy watching Al watch you.”

---

Esther Kreek has created six recordings of her dulcimer music and a children's book, A Dulcimer for Elspeth, with its own CD of music and narration. She teaches and performs throughout the United States, combining history, storytelling, and music for schools, churches, and historical sites. She lives in Kansas and has three sons and three grandchildren.


Back to top

More articles from Daily Word