Earlier this month, I ordered a new mattress for our master bedroom. Mike and I had been sleeping on the old one far too long; it had reached the point where flipping and/or rotating did no good and valleys would reappear at either side after a night or two of sleep. Even so, I spent a lot of time thinking about my options before I finally clicked the Complete Purchase button and scheduled delivery.
I’m not sure why that purchase caused me so much anxiety. The new mattress was clearly necessary; I had the money to pay for it; I made the purchase from Costco, which has a generous return policy. And the mattress I ultimately purchased was a middle-of-the-road option, definitely not an extravagance.
It took me a while to realize that I was nervous about this because I’d never done it on my own before. That’s right: I’m a 61-year-old woman who had never once purchased or scheduled delivery for a mattress.
Lest you think this means I’ve lived the life of a princess, I will hasten to add that my husband—before his diagnosis with Parkinson’s and its related dementia—was what I often referred to as a competitive shopper. He loved to research a big purchase. He was a longtime devotee of Consumer Reports; he kept back copies of its annual Buying Guide on a shelf in our storage room, for the purpose of tracking changes in their recommendations over time. And he really, really loved a bargain—nothing brought him more joy getting his top choice item at a reasonable price.
Put all that together and you end up with a scenario where Mike and I would discuss, for example, the need for a new mattress; he would begin to do the research on which one we should get, consulting me for an opinion on various options; eventually, he would come to me and say This mattress is on sale at Costco and it’s the one Consumer Reports recommends. I’m going to go ahead and buy it, since we talked about needing a new one. Okay?
At which point I would consider whatever option he had presented, ask whatever questions I might still have, then nod and say Okay. After so many years, I trusted his judgment. I rarely felt the need for second-guessing him.
I do not, apparently, trust my own judgment quite as much.
That came as something of a surprise to me, because I’ve spent the last seven years making all the big decisions—the last six with the legal power to make big decisions on Mike’s behalf. You would think that I’d proven myself to myself by now.
And I have lots of single friends who are living big, fulfilling lives. Some are divorced; some never married; some are widowed. Several of them run businesses by themselves; others are raising children, with or without the help of a co-parent. I mention all of this by way of pointing out that I am not a person who believes women can’t operate on their own in the world. Quite the opposite, in fact.
But it seems likely that at least some of my self-doubt arises from the fact that I’ve been part of a couple since I was 24 years old. Making decisions that directly impact both Mike and me (like choosing the bed we’re going to sleep in every night) has been a joint enterprise for 37 years; doing this on my own still feels wrong, a lot of the time. Reminding myself that Mike is no longer capable of participating in an informed decision-making process doesn’t change how it feels to make a decision by myself.
The idea that I need someone else’s go-ahead isn’t what’s getting in my way. The problem is that, sometimes, it doesn’t feel like should be making a decision on my own. In those moments, I’m still thinking like a married person.
Which makes sense, of course, because I am.
I know I’m lucky that I don’t have to do everything by myself. Mike goes to a dementia care program for several hours a day during the week; I have two adult children nearby, both of whom are more than willing to offer an assist when I need it. Those two factors alone offer me a lot more support than many caregivers have.
But there are a number of things I will have to do on my own, a lot of big decisions that Mike and I would have made together and only I can make for myself now. Put a new roof on our house or roll the dice and wait another year? Buy a new dishwasher or wait until the old one (which isn’t doing a great job, but still works) conks out completely? Maintain my car or trade it in?
These are the kinds of questions Mike and I would have talked to death before making a decision. Now, he struggles to make it all the way to the end of a sentence before he forgets what prompted it.
I don’t want anyone else to step in and tell me what to do. (One of my least favorite things in the world is unsolicited advice.) But I would like to know what it will take for me to learn to trust my judgment as the single decision-maker in my household.
Maybe it’s just a matter of time; after enough years have gone by, maybe I’ll forget that I used to make decisions any other way. Maybe the whole idea of consulting with someone before I make a choice will come to feel as strange as flying solo does right now.
I don’t know if that’s something I want to hope for.
Thank you. My husband has a degenerative neuro diagnosis as well. While I have been gradually taking over more and more decisions, I notice it is often these seemingly’littler’ ones that I notice, feel. Thanks for your writing. I appreciate you.
I bounced everything off my mother who has advanced dementia now. I’ve been caring for her in my home for seven years. I still miss being able to consult w each other on big purchases or even what color to paint the living room. ❤️