Free Slow Dancing with a Stranger by Meryl Comer Page B

now stretched into the third week, with no end in sight.
    One morning during the third week, I arrived at 6:45 A . M . to find that Harvey was not in his room. It was empty, and I started to panic. What had happened? I spotted a worn burgundy leather couch, typically located in the lounge area, blocking the entrance to a small room on the other side of the hall. Noises emanating from the room sounded familiar. I peeked in and found Harvey, dazed and pacing back and forth, making a small circuit from the far corner of the bed to the sink, as if he were caged. I called his name, but he did not respond. Moving the heavy barricade just enough to squeeze by, I slipped into the cramped quarters, talking gently and trying to calm him. I held out the breakfast I had brought from home, but he lashed out with his fist. The food landed on the floor, splattering everywhere. I kicked what I could under the bed and threw down a towel so Harvey wouldn’t slip, then pulled the nurse’s cord for help. No answer.
    Harvey now headed straight toward me. There was no room to get out of his way. It was clear that he didn’t recognize me. The menacing look in his eyes was frightening. Fearing for my safety, I jumped over the back of the couch onto the cushions, escaped into the hall, and headed for the nursing station. I was told that Harvey had suffered an adverse reaction to a higher dose of the latest medication and was out of control. Short-staffed, the overnight nurse said there was no option but to move him into the barricaded room where they could monitor him at a safe distance.
    I felt sick inside and ran to the ladies’ room, where I threw up. Splashing cold water on my face, I tried to pull myself together. I went back to the room and stationed myself near the couch so Harvey could hear me. I hoped the sound of my voice might calm him, but he continued to pace. Eventually, exhausted from his all-night exertions, he lay down on the bed and fell asleep.
    A few hours later, he awoke. He seemed calmer but still out of reach. He needed to be cleaned up. I guided Harvey down the hall to the double-stall handicapped shower that accommodated wheelchairs, hoping that the wide berth would give me room to maneuver if I needed to get out of his way. I had been helping him with his personal care for years using a combination of strategies. I tried to give him as much autonomy as possible, even if the act of bathing and dressing took four times longer than normal to complete. I never raised my voice, pretending to be calm even when panicked. However, ever since Harvey had been in the hospital, things were different. Harvey reacted violently to all personal assistance with intimate care and toileting.
    I reached with the bath sponge to wash Harvey’s groin area and suddenly felt his left fist slam into my face. Blood gushed from my mouth as I backed away, realizing that the force of the blow had smashed my front teeth. I began to cry from the shock and pain.
    Harvey seemed confused by the sound of crying, but he never unclenched his fist. I pressed the call button, and the nurse and an orderly came running. Between the two of them, they managed to get control of Harvey. They dried him off and dressed him while I iced my mouth. Each day since Harvey fell ill, I felt that I was slowly losing pieces of my husband, but this episode was a turning point. All the strategies that had once calmed him were failing. He didn’t seem to respond either to medicine or to my familiar touch. All I saw now was the dark side of his mind. Harvey was locked away not only in the hospital but inside this strange insidious illness. For the first time, he seemed completely out of reach.
    The weeks in the hospital blurred together. The relentless pacing continued at all hours, with Harvey stopping only to sleep. I fed him while he paced an empty activities room. When he passed by, I reached out with food or drink, hoping to distract him or slow him down.