More than 13,000 Vermonters aged 65 and older have been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, the most common cause of dementia.
For many married couples, when one partner is diagnosed, there’s often no question that the other will become the caregiver. It’s the hard part of the "for better or for worse" wedding vow, and something renowned Vermont artist Warren Kimble has been navigating over the last decade with his wife of 50 years, Lorraine.
Kimble’s folksy paintings of barns, cats and spotted cows have become iconic.
But on a recent afternoon, the 91-year-old was crafting something more personal.
“I just made a Valentine for Lorraine,” Kimble explained. "One year, I forgot to buy a Valentine, so I went down to the cellar and cut one out of wood, and so far I've made one every year for her."
A wall in his small apartment in Middlebury is covered with some of the hearts he’s given to Lorraine throughout their long marriage.
The couple met in Brandon in the early 1970s. Both were divorced and were raising children. They’d run into each other a lot socially.
“I remember, she called me up one day and said, ‘How would you like to go to Montreal, and we'll take the boys and just go?’" Kimble recalled. "And I thought that was shocking. A woman would call me and say, ‘Let's go to Montreal.’ And so we did, and came back and I guess we fell in love!”
Lorraine was a few years older, very put together and fun, said Kimble.
"She was from Maine, so I call her my 'Maine-iac,'” he joked. “She has two big dimples that you can't miss, and to this day, she still dresses well.”
Kimble credits Lorraine with his financial success as an artist. She’s the one who negotiated the deals that put his art on everything from calendars to coffee mugs.
“I always introduced her to people first as my CEO,” he explained. "It was important people knew that."
But in the last 10 years, things changed.
“It's a very gradual thing, dementia. You just want to fix it, and it ain't fixable,” he sighed.
Husband, caregiver
As Lorraine's dementia symptoms worsened, Kimble said the stress became almost unbearable.
“She set the kitchen on fire with the microwave a couple of times. Luckily I caught it in time," he said. "And then she walked downtown in the middle of the night in the snow in her pajamas. Luckily someone from the bakery picked her up and called the police and the police brought her back.”
Events like that punctuated Lorraine’s daily forgetfulness, when she’d ask the same questions over and over.
“And then there’s the anger period,” Kimble said. “When they’re angry because they don’t know what’s going on with themselves. You have to learn about that and it takes time, and you just don't get it, as a caregiver. You want them to be who they were."
Kimble's love for Lorraine helped him hang on, he said. He missed the long conversations they used to have, but learned to get used to quiet moments on the couch watching television and holding hands.
"You don't talk because there's nothing to talk about. There are no answers,” he said.
'Just touching her saves me'
Still, the difficulty of being a caregiver took a toll on Kimble, as it does for many. He lost weight and said he suffered mini strokes. It’s what finally pushed him to move his wife into a memory care facility in Middlebury last year.
Kimble said their kids had encouraged him to make the move earlier, but he said no.
“I waited too long.” he admitted softly. “You don’t want to do it because you think you can take care of it, or you feel obligated to do it. Especially men; us guys have to be tough.”
But last August, Kimble moved into an independent apartment one floor up in the same complex as Lorraine. Now he can visit her anytime he wants to.
“Love is a strange thing,” Kimble mused. “When you get married, there's lots of physical love and stuff. And then there's the talking love. Being with a person, the socializing part of love. … Doing things together is love … and now I have still the ability to see this cute, good-looking woman with dimples. I don't know what kind of love you call that."
But he’s grateful for it and grateful to his wife who bought the long-term care insurance that made it possible for them to afford memory care and his apartment upstairs.
On a recent visit to see her, Lorraine lit up and touched his cheek when he pulled her close for a kiss.
“I have to go down there. I don’t have to, but I have to just touch her and sit with her. Because I need it!” Kimble said.
“Does she need it?” he wondered. “I think she does. She still knows my name. But she doesn’t know much else. ... You have to get over that and that’s tough," he said. "But just touching her saves me. She holds me, and it’s fabulous.”
