Last Thanksgiving I was sitting at the head of the dining room table with my family around us as we enjoyed our traditional feast: turkey, potatoes, cranberry sauce, gravy, and a mixture of mashed sweet potatoes and mini marshmallows that I love. We call it “batidillo”.
My children, ages 18 and 20, piled food high on their plates.
My mother helped herself to smaller portions and a glass of wine.
And I held the hand of my beloved, who was sitting next to me with tears in her eyes while I saw on the other side of the table a woman, her contemporary, who was eating with the
help of a caregiver.
That woman is my wife, Bridget, 59 years old.
Before Alzheimer's ate away Bridget's brain cells along with her soul, Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday.
Now, a decade after developing the disease, my wife had no idea what Thanksgiving was or who we were.
The caregiver had to keep reminding her to stay seated.
That night was also the first time she and my new partner ate at the
same table.
None of us could have imagined that scene until recently.
For a decade, my wife and I were happily married parents until her functional abilities began to fail.
Bridget—who expertly organized our wedding and the budgets for the Museum of Modern Art and the Whitney Museum in Excel spreadsheets—refused to believe it was anything serious until the mistakes became too frequent and dangerous to ignore:
He ran stop signs, let pots catch fire, missed the kids' playdates, and even
forgot to attend his 50th birthday dinner.
After the neurologist broke the devastating news eight years ago that Bridget was suffering from the onset of Alzheimer's disease, I cared for her at home with the help of caregivers while maintaining my full-time job and acting as a parent to her daughter. our children, 11 and 13.
At one point, Bridget required 24-hour care at home.
Due to his incessant agitation, I had to stop sleeping in our room, and created a separate space in our home so that I could sleep and live there.
“Please go and meet someone else,” he asked me shortly after his diagnosis.
But I rejected the idea immediately.
I didn't want to imagine life without her.
However, six years later, Bridget no longer recognized me as her husband.
We never had a serious talk about it, and now she couldn't have one anymore.
I missed Bridget and felt alone.
But instead of facing the murky waters of what kind of companionship could exist in the context of my marriage, I had simply convinced myself that I didn't need a partner.
Besides, what woman could accept a relationship with a man who was committed to staying married and taking care of his wife?
Deb, the woman whose hand he was holding on Thanksgiving, was married 25 years before divorcing in 2018.
His three children – the oldest is 17 – were celebrating with their father a few kilometers away;
She and her ex took turns hosting the holiday.
I met her fourteen months earlier on a surf trip in Montauk, when Hurricane Fiona hit.
She had driven to the beach that morning after a mutual friend suggested we meet, concerned that we were both missing company.
That day, the waves were very big;
and the ocean, cold.
It took me a while to work up the courage to get in the water, but I ended up putting on a swimsuit and riding the best wave I'd seen all season.
On the other hand, the idea of going into the search for a partner seemed impossible again to me due to the guilt I would surely feel.
During that first performance on the beach, I said to Deb:
“I'm fine with never getting married again and meeting different needs with different people.”
“Uh-huh,” she responded, apparently skeptical.
Without being able to go on dates, she and I continued going to the beach, riding our bikes, to the theater and to the movies.
By then, we had both been through a lot in life, but we were focused on what the miraculous present had to offer.
“One of these days we are going to have a great time together,” I told him after the third or fourth date that wasn't a date.
After several months, I began to wonder:
“What exactly am I waiting for?”
If it didn't work for whatever reason, it would continue as at the beginning:
married but effectively alone.
One Friday night, I surprised Deb with a kiss, and suddenly my life took on a new dimension.
Our romance had many effects at once: it helped me regain hope, process loss, feel wonder again, and remember what it felt like to be in a reciprocal relationship.
The first time she made me dinner, I practically fell off my chair with gratitude.
It turns out that Deb is an incredibly capable and understanding partner.
He doesn't question the time I spend with my wife and children.
I still take care of my wife like before, and I wear my wedding ring.
I am much happier.
I can love two people completely and not feel conflicted.
Deb and I openly revealed our relationship to friends and family.
Of course, there were complications.
Deb had two children living with her, and they were understandably reluctant to accept me until the relationship proved serious.
I had a high school student and my wife at home.
But we all adapt.
My kids seemed grateful to have a woman in their lives who understood the benefits of having a mattress topper on a college dorm bed.
When Deb was in a serious car accident, her kids and I went to the emergency room and told her jokes to keep her in a good mood, as well as eating takeout hamburgers on the hospital floor.
My in-laws gave us their blessing, and my wife's mother told me:
"It was time".
I even tried to explain to Bridget that I had found another partner, but that I would always take care of her at home.
“I think that's a good idea,” he said, but I'm not sure how much he understood.
On Thanksgiving Day, holding Deb's hand, I thought I knew why she had tears in her eyes.
I had just seen how my oldest son greeted his mother saying:
“It's me, William.”
At first, Bridget didn't react.
He did return the hug, although awkwardly, after a very long pause.
I had seen similar scenes dozens of times, and I had told Deb about them, but she had never seen Bridget not be able to respond to her own son.
Deb expressed her empathy with Bridget during one of our first nights together.
“It's so unfair that someone had to get sick so I could be with you,” she said.
Since then, the two had been together several times and attended events with me, including a walk to raise money for Alzheimer's and a photo shoot before my son's high school graduation, another milestone for which Bridget was present and absent at the same time.
Deb, whom I would describe as emotionally fearless, had behaved on all of those occasions with
generosity and grace.
But I underestimated the emotional impact of sitting them at the same table on Thanksgiving.
After we finished eating and I cleared the table, Deb drove back to the apartment we now share.
“I can't help but feel like an intruder,” she said.
“This is her holiday at her house, and I'm taking her place, but she's still there.
I know she is irrational, but I can't help but think that she must feel that replacement.”
“I don't think I feel that way,” I replied.
“Please don't feel guilty.”
“I think it's harder because it's Thanksgiving,” he said.
"It's a family moment".
“Now you are part of my family.”
“I know, but I still feel that way.”
At a certain point I stopped trying to convince her not to feel all that and I told her:
“I guess I’d be worried if you didn’t feel that way.”
We brushed our teeth and went to bed together.
“I know why we can't get married,” she said.
“And I accept our reality, but it's still difficult in an unspeakable way that makes me feel bad even mentioning it.”
“I feel like I marry you every day with what we do for each other,” I replied.
As always, without much planning, we had prepared and served the meal—our first Thanksgiving together—in my family home with ease, almost without saying a word.
Deb even proposed to ask my mother-in-law for the recipe for the “batidillo”, since she couldn't prepare it this year due to her husband's illness.
(“Your father is dying of cancer,” she had tried to explain to Bridget, without success).
It was the same dance Deb and I had been dancing since that walk on the beach.
“The beautiful present” is what we call it, a daily affirmation of our commitment in which pain, consolation and happiness are mixed.
That night, I couldn't do anything but accept all of that.
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