Former Spousal Caregivers and Match.com

by Amie Brockway

Suzanne is a Former.   For three years she has sorted, organized, given away, thrown away.  There is no end in sight.  She turns off lights, lowers the heat, and never has quite enough money to pay the bills. 

George is a Former.  He gave away some things, but the rest sits there on the dresser, in the cupboards, among the mountains of financial records.  His house is headed for foreclosure; his bank put a lien on his account.

Brenda is a Former.  Her house is paid for but she has no car and only $700 a month to live on.   

Andrew is a Former.  He and his cats moved into a furnished apartment.       

They are all recovering from years of caregiving.  Their spouses had Parkinson's Disease, ALS, MS, Stroke. 

They are all on Match.com.

How in the world did a woman who spent 57 years in two long-term relationships-- 47 of those married -- get to be 70-something without learning anything about men?  And then, in two short years of dedicated research determine:  1) that the vast majority of men--at least those in their 70s--are dense, lazy, fearful, lack imagination, and require instant gratification?   2) that at this stage of research, 100% have broken shoulders, suffer from first marriages in which their wives didn't like sex,  and have at least one adult male child unable to fend for himself? 

She is on Match.com.

Suzanne's late husband, Dave, was a little guy with sparkling eyes and a dimpled grin:  Maybe 5'9" at one point, but in time, more like 5'5".  He was 13 years her senior.  In junior high and high school he was a cross country runner, and he continued to run throughout his life until he began to feel as though he was "running on square wheels".   He had five academic degrees including a BA in engineering from Villanova, an MA in literature from Swarthmore, and a Ph. D in philosophy from Yale.   He taught philosophy at Cornell University, University of Utah, University of Michigan, and for 25 years at Rutgers University.  He had had two dysfunctional marriages before they met.  During marriage number two, he took a sabbatical, and he and his wife lived in Nice, France for 7 months.  He wrote short stories and was a poet.  Politics engaged him.  In the '60s he founded UCPAG:  Utah Citizens for Positive American Goals.  He often told about the day his mother took him from Philadelphia to New York City to see Paul Robeson in "Othello."  He described it as the most "formative" event of his youth.  He died of pneumonia at the end of a long journey through Parkinson's ,just three weeks before his 82nd birthday--which would have been on August 13.

Suzanne met Jerome on Match.com.  His photo showed an impish smile and sparkling eyes.  His profile said he was from Saratoga Springs, 70 years old, 5' 5", athletic.  He had been married twice, was a lawyer with General Electric, and a published short-story writer, with degrees from Skidmore, Bennington, and two from Harvard.  He was active in politics.  A couple of years earlier he had started a discussion group called "What Do You Really Think?" which met monthly at his home.  It sounded to Suzanne much like the "Engaging the World Forum" that she coordinates in her Catskill Mountain community.  He drove a Honda CRV, a couple of years older than hers.

They e-mailed back and forth for several weeks.  He sent her one of his published short stories about a man who went to France looking for love, lived there for a year, found love, but turned his back on it and returned to the US.  She suspected it was autobiographical.  They talked on the phone and made plans to meet midway between their two homes--to have lunch at Swoon's, a 4-star restaurant in Hudson. 

Suzanne had already had lunch meetings with several Match.com gentlemen.   They included:
1) The one from Tilson, who announced they would each pay for their own food and that he had no interest whatever in community, government, or any group activities.
2) The one who had been a hospital management consultant to the Mayor of New York City and then became embroiled in a scandal and now was hanging out in a trailer park in New Paltz. 
3) The ex-pilot from Ravenna now working part-time for Lowe's, who seemed to be a whole lot more interested in the waitress than in Suzanne;
4) The restaurateur turned blueberry farmer who almost immediately noticed that he and Suzanne were poles apart politically;
5) The ex-middle school Principal from Brooklyn who left his wife to remodel a barn upstate near the Massachusetts border.  He was so eager to please that he ordered dessert twice.

Compared to any of these, Jerome seemed like a very hot prospect.

Suzanne did her usual Google search to see what more she could learn about Jerome, and the information pretty much checked with what he had told her.  On a sunny January Sunday with plowed snow piled high, Suzanne set her GPS for the hour-and-a-half drive to Hudson.  She was lucky to get a parking place diagonally across the street from Swoon's.  She looked at her watch:  exactly on time!  She crossed the street and pulled the big     wooden door open.  There sat Jerome facing the door with the smile she had seen in his photo.  "But," she said to herself, "he's not 70."  She walked toward him, past the big mahogany bar and he motioned for her to sit in the comfortable looking upholstered wooden chair across from him. 

He was a perfect gentleman, and the conversation was lively.  From appetizer to dessert, lunch lasted 2 ½ hours.   When he poured the wine, he assured her that though he had a tremor, he did not have Parkinson's.  "My sister does have it, though," he confessed.   They talked about their two discussion groups and their Honda CRVs.  They talked about his short story and she asked why the main character ran away from love.  He said he didn't think of it as running away, but as rootlessness.  He talked about his year in France, and his years at Harvard.  His stories reminded her of Dave's stories about Yale, and she asked him if he could tell her what years he was at Harvard.  "I can," he said.  "Will you?" She asked.  "No," he replied. 
 
He talked about his first wife and their dysfunctional marriage.   "Ruth didn't like sex," he explained.  "Your first wife's name was Ruth?!"   "Yes," he replied quizzically.  "That was Dave's first wife's name, too," She explained. 

After the briefest pause, he talked about his dysfunctional childhood in which his parents sent him to live with his aunt and uncle in New Hampshire.  "That was a formative time," he said.  "While I was there, my aunt took me to New York City to see Paul Robeson in "Othello"--probably the most influential event of my childhood," he said.  She decided not to mention Dave's formative experience with Paul Robeson and "Othello," but noted that Jerome and Dave must have been young impressionable boys at about the same time, confirming her observations that 70 was probably not Jerome's actual age.

In time, Jerome excused himself and went to the men's room.  Seeing him stand and walk for the first time, Suzanne recognized the "Parkinson's stoop" of his carriage--not proof that he has Parkinson's by any means, but not a feature that endeared him to her, either.
When he returned, they talked about places they would like to go, things they would like to see.  She asked him when his birthday was--a question she always asked of men she had some interest in.  "August 13," he said. 

It seemed as though the waitress paused in mid-step; the people at the next table suspended their soup spoons in mid-flight from bowl to mouth; and the antique clock on the wall came to a halt. 

"Why?  Is that your birthday?" Jerome asked at last.  She slowly shook her head from side to side.  "It was Dave's." 

He paid the bill, and helped her on with her jacket.  They walked together to the place where he had hung his coat and she helped him on with it.  He added muffler, hat, and very warm gloves.  They continued to the door of the restaurant and outside to his Honda CRV parked right in front, where they shook hands and said, "Goodbye".  Then she crossed the street, got into her CRV and set her GPS for home.  That night a more thorough search brought up "Jerome Jeffreys, Saugerties, NY, age 83."

In the insightful one-woman show "Shirley Valentine," the seemingly lost and hopeless wife asks her audience, "Well, you don't start over at 42, do you?"    

Former spousal caregivers, after 10, 20, 30, 40, or more years in the caregiving trenches ask that question at age 52, 62, 72, 82.  Most are wounded emotionally, socially, and physically as well as financially.   They are lonely, lost, hopeless, and literally exhausted. Statistics show that they have a 63% greater risk of death during the first three years after their spouse dies than the rest of the population.   How many people know this?  Does anyone care? 

A few states are now giving modest stipends to spousal caregivers to ease the financial burden, but most states do not.  Many long-term care policies allow hiring of outside help.  Some even allow the chronically ill patient or primary caregiver to hire assistants of their choice, as long as that person is not a relative.  But, so far, only three pay the spousal caregiver.   Yet, it is easy to see how spousal caregivers save taxpayers millions (or billions) of dollars per year.  

Can this picture be changed?  What will it take?