By Corina Knoll
It
began almost playfully, like tiny hiccups in her mind. She would forget
she had already changed the sheets and change them again, or repeat a
thought in the same breath.
Then the illness amplified.
She
grew confused by everyday tasks. Became convinced her parents were
still alive and insisted upon a visit. At social gatherings, she was
anxious and fearful. She forgot how to sew and cross-stitch. Forgot the
faces of her children.
She did remember her name. Alma Shaver. But not her age. Eighty.
And sometimes, she did not know her husband.
He
was Richard Shaver, a man whose wife of 60 years had been found by
dementia, that thief that robs the minds of 50 million people worldwide.
So common, yet so personally cruel — it comes with no road map for
those tending to the afflicted.
For
a while, Mr. Shaver managed. He would sit next to his wife and rub her
hand, her knee, to try to calm the unease. He left notes explaining
simple tasks. If she was stuck repeating herself, he asked yes or no
questions to break the cycle. Did you graduate in 1957, Alma? Why, yes.
When
visiting family, he picked out her clothes, usually the beige
sweatshirt with the collar and a bird stitched on the front. He resorted
to fast food in the drive-through lane so she wouldn’t have to get out
of the car.
By the spring of this year, things had
gotten worse, as they always do with an illness that takes and takes and
takes. Ms. Shaver had slipped beyond a murky fog that her husband could
not join.
Mr. Shaver waited until the
two were alone in their Brick, N.J., home, a white colonial they had
bought in retirement because the deck opened up to a lagoon.
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It
was a warm Sunday afternoon in June, the kind of day where, in
healthier times, he would have steered his boat out on the water, and
she would have sat on the deck swing waiting for his return.
Instead, Ms. Shaver was in the upstairs bedroom asleep, the only peace she ever seemed to find.
Mr. Shaver, 79, crawled onto the canopy bed — the one they had shared for years — and shot his wife.
Then he lay down beside her and shot himself.
He
asked her to the Candyland Cotillion, a high school dance, in 1956. He
arrived in a dark suit with his blond hair slicked to one side. She wore
a sleeveless dress and a circle of pearls. He swiped her dance card and
scrawled his name across all seven lines.
They
had known each other since childhood, not unusual in the village of
Shadyside, Ohio. That night, Alma Archibald went home and declared, “I’m
going to marry that Richard Shaver.”
Two years later, they eloped.
They
eventually moved to Landing, N.J., where they raised three daughters.
By then, Mr. Shaver had worked for NASA and G.E. in electrical
engineering and was traveling often for RCA.
Bright
and fiercely independent, he insisted on doing home repairs himself. He
bought a motorcycle and taught his girls to ride it.
He liked to plan ahead, hiding envelopes of cash around the house in case of emergency and writing a guide to finding each one.
Ms.
Shaver was strong-willed and warm, meticulous about her home and her
appearance. She had meals on the table at 5 p.m., dressed up as Mrs.
Claus, led a Girl Scout troop, delivered handmade gifts. Families liked
to use her as their emergency contact.
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Friends were drawn to the Shavers’ energy, charisma and laughter.
“They
were absolutely soul mates — crazy about each other,” said Gerry
O’Connell, 71, who lived on the same block as the Shavers for two
decades. “You’d never hear one say anything bad about the other. My
husband traveled and I’d get mad, I’m here alone with the kids. But Alma
never would get mad at Dick. She was just happy to drive down in the
snow to pick him up at the train station.”
In
1992, the couple moved to Brick near Barnegat Bay where they were a
comforting sight in the neighborhood — pulling weeds, riding bikes,
holding hands.
At home and when visiting others, the two tended to be in the same room, often sitting side by side.
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Mr. Shaver had always been flippant about what he wanted in his final years.
He
would joke about overdosing on pills when the time came, or say he
didn’t want a funeral, just a party with lots of booze and funny
stories. He referred to nursing homes as “The Place.”
“Don’t send me to The Place,” he would say.
When
his wife was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease a few years ago, Mr.
Shaver avoided discussing it and grew evasive about the future. He
dismissed offers of help and suggestions that he hire a home health
aide. His daughter Karen McDonald wanted to buy him a home near her. He
declined.
“He didn’t want to talk
about it, just like, ‘Mind your own business, I’m taking care of it,’”
Ms. McDonald, 58, said. “His whole life was always about her. She was
the most important. Not the kids or the grandkids. It was her.”
One
of the few times Mr. Shaver admitted to being rattled by the disease
was when his wife lashed out at him, recalled his daughter Kristy
Truland, 52.
“She started screaming,
‘I don’t know who you are, get away from me, don’t touch me!’ to my
father in the house,” said Ms. Truland, who spoke to her parents every
day.
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Her father had saved well for retirement, and she urged him to think about moving to an assisted living center.
“He
didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want to go to a nursing home — none
of it,” Ms. Truland said. “And definitely didn’t want to leave her for
us to take care of. He would say, ‘You’re just gonna put her in a
home.’”
Mr. Shaver’s own health was a mystery. He complained of back pain, but never revealed the results of doctors’ visits.
At
one point he declared that he and his wife were going to take a break
from doctors, because they didn’t seem to be doing any good.
Their
home grew dusty and unfamiliar. Mr. Shaver turned down his daughters’
gift of a cleaning service. The home had once been a hub for the family,
where the couple hosted children and grandchildren. But Ms. Shaver
herself had become childlike.
“The first time she didn’t know me, I was crying in the shower,” Ms. Truland said, “because my mother was gone.”
In late May, Ms. Shaver fell in the garage, nearly taking down Mr. Shaver with her. The incident unnerved him.
Ms.
Shaver ended up having to go to the hospital. The following week,
Valerie Dominioni, a friend who lived across the water, stopped by with a
rose.
“Alma
really appreciated it,” Mr. Shaver later told Ms. Dominioni on the
phone. “You’re such a good neighbor.” He sounded emotional.
Ms. Dominioni, 75, thinks of that call often, as well as something Ms. Shaver said to her earlier that afternoon.
“We have to go away,” Ms. Shaver said. “You understand, don’t you?”
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Their
bodies were discovered on June 10 after police arrived for a welfare
check. Ms. Truland, their daughter, had been unable to reach them for
their usual phone call.
Coroner’s
reports would reveal that Ms. Shaver tested positive for the painkiller
Oxymorphone and had been shot in the back of her neck. Mr. Shaver had
been shot in the mouth.
The reports also noted that Mr. Shaver had metastatic tumors on his liver and kidneys and suffered from emphysema.
Authorities
would file away the deaths as a murder-suicide, an act of domestic
violence, and the news was posted on an anti-gun violence website.
Months
later, the surviving family members have come to see it like this: It
is not the ending they would have chosen. But they won’t hold it against
their father.
“If you knew him, it makes sense,” his daughter Linda Shaver, 55, said.
They
have no idea when or how Mr. Shaver acquired the revolver. Going
through his things later, they found a box of pills with a note that had
one daughter’s phone number and a receipt for a recent hotel stay.
Perhaps a quieter plan had failed. Ms. Shaver had been having trouble
swallowing lately, a symptom of the disease’s progression.
Mr.
Shaver’s death especially stung his daughters. They were accustomed to
their mother not being entirely there. They never thought their father
would soon leave, too.
But they are
thankful to not be embroiled in a murder trial. And impelled to now lead
full lives, aware that the disease could come for them, too.
There
is one thing that still makes them collapse inside when they reflect
upon it all: the thought of their father in his last hour on that bed.
They
imagine him lying next to his dead wife, placing the towel over his
face, slipping the gun into his mouth, telling himself it was time to
pull the trigger. He must have felt so alone.
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Two weeks after the Shavers died, their family had a party.
It was not the one Mr. Shaver had once requested in lieu of a funeral, but there were fireworks and flowers and spinning lights.
Their granddaughter, Alissa Ryan, got married.
Ms.
Ryan wrote a speech for a host to read that acknowledged the tragedy,
but asked guests to welcome a new love story. It set the tone. Let’s be happy today.
Family and friends danced, toasted, embraced, caroused.
There
was a moment before the celebration that Ms. Ryan had wondered how
exactly one continues on with a wedding so soon. But, while some were
upset at her grandfather’s timing, she was not.
“They were in pain for how many years? They didn’t even know what day it was,” Ms. Ryan, 31, said.
Mr.
Shaver had, in fact, been aware of the upcoming nuptials. The only note
he left behind was inside a blue envelope addressed to Ms. Ryan and her
husband and placed on the dining room table.
It
offered no insight into the end of the Shavers’ time together, only a
simple wish from a man who had come to know what must be cherished.
Full Article & Source:
Sweethearts Forever. Then Came Alzheimer’s, Murder and Suicide.
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