For all the time I've known Bru, he hasn't been religious. (He joined the Mormons as a teenager but left them after a few years.) I've been a Roman Catholic all my life, and for most of our marriage, he was quite happy to be left behind when I went to Mass. However, as his cognitive decline became more noticeable, his desire to come along grew.
I believe this began because he simply didn't want to be alone, but he often seems to enjoy Mass now. Always a people watcher, he observes how our fellow parishioners pray (or don't), how children behave (or don't), and how people dress up (or don't). He likes the music when it's well done, which is most of the time, and he really likes how one of the priests preaches.
Two Sundays ago, he seemed confused and a little upset before we left for church. This isn't unusual when we are leaving the house, but he seemed to have something on his mind that he couldn't articulate. He said he didn't feel well. This also isn't unusual, but I told him we could stay home, that if he felt sick we didn't need to go to church.
"No, I want to go to church. I've been looking forward to it."
As we walked to the church, he was close to tears and said several times, "I'm sorry," as if he had done something that had hurt me. I tried to reassure him that all was well, and the wave of emotion receded, though it swelled again when we sat down, and then receded once more.
The priest announced at the beginning of Mass that there would be an anointing of the sick after the homily. I wondered whether I should be anointed, to help ease the psychological strain I've been feeling, and I also thought how wonderful it would be if Bru were anointed. But I immediately dismissed both ideas because I didn't want to create any additional confusion for Bru. He's not familiar with the rite, and I didn't know if he would understand my instructions in the moment. So when the time came, we didn't stand for the blessing.
But as the actual anointing began, I could tell Bru was agitated and close to tears. I put my hand on his knee and leaned close to ask him if he was OK. He shook his head. Then something prompted me to ask if he wanted to be anointed. He took a beat to answer, but when he did, it was a very firm "Yes."
I whispered, "OK! Stand up, now."
I guided him to the end of the pew. Then I showed him how to hold his hands, palms upward. When the priest anointed his forehead, I said "Amen" for him, and when his palms were anointed, he said "Amen" for himself.
He became calm as we sat down, and I wondered briefly if a miracle would take place, if his dementia would disappear or his cognitive decline would recede like the wave of emotion after his anointing.
It didn't. There was no miracle cure. But something seemed different.
When we got home, he sobbed for a long time, regretting the difficulties his family endured when he was young. Afterwards, he seemed lighter, and he was more talkative and engaged than usual for the rest of the day.
We didn't talk about the anointing.
The next morning, he was positively chirpy. He was watching the squirrels in the backyard, and hoping some deer would come by so he could go out and shoo them away. He laughed at jokes and made very bad puns. And he was singing, a phrase here and there from old standards, usually triggered by a word or phrase from our conversation.
There's no miracle here. He doesn't remember his anointing at all. But since then, he has been lighter and happier. Not a lot, but enough to notice. I hope (and pray, with gratitude) that this new ease, whatever the source, will continue to give him more good days in whatever time he has left.