My wife’s birthday was a few weeks away. Should I buy her a present?
The reason I asked is that my wife has dementia. She’s at a stage where she struggles to find words and doesn’t always seem to respond to my visits. Even if I told her her birthday was coming, I couldn’t be sure she’d understand.
In the years after her diagnosis she still recognized events like birthdays, and I’d buy things she liked — earrings and scarves, books, CDs from favorite artists. Over time I stopped buying clothes unless she could try them on; I gave up on CDs as formats changed. Now she has an Alexa in her room to play music on demand.
Because dementia erases memories, partners can reasonably let milestone dates go unnoticed. I can’t ask Marsha, but I believe she wouldn’t know if I skipped a birthday. I also have new responsibilities: daily visits, chatting, back rubs, wheelchair walks. Still, I want moments of joy that recall our past. Even without words, I hope she senses a special moment.
Lately I choose gifts that evoke an immediate reaction: food. She lives in a kosher group home with good meals, so I look for kosher treats. Ice cream is her favorite — she taught me you can have a bowl of it for dinner sometimes — and coffee is her top flavor. I bought a container of Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream. After dinner the staff served a bowl and the smile that spread across her face at that first taste was pure pleasure.
Watermelon is another reliable favorite; even in winter I try to find a personal melon for her.
This year, walking past a store, I saw a sweater that was “so Marsha”: a trim cardigan with black and charcoal bands and a cheeky red stripe near the buttons. I wondered if it would fit and whether she really needed another sweater, given her full wardrobe and declining visual focus. Our daughters agreed it was perfect, so I bought it, hoping I could return it if it didn’t work.
On her birthday the three of us visited. “We have presents!” I said. My younger daughter later told me she saw a flicker of a smile. We helped Marsha into the sweater. It fit — a small birthday miracle. Her face lit up; for a moment she looked like the Marsha I’ve known and loved for decades.
Andrea Kohn, the nurse practitioner who helps care for Marsha, says dementia is a disease of moments. You can’t predict how someone will be from one visit to the next. Sometimes Marsha dozes, sometimes she stares vacantly, sometimes she responds to music, sometimes she’s agitated. But Andrea believes the smiles are genuine now — she can’t fake emotion at this stage.
What did this birthday teach me about presents? A gift is just an object. Many people claim “the only gift I want is your presence,” and that’s true — especially for those who have lost so much. I give my presence, despite how painful visits can be. But this sweater created a shared joyful moment. Even amid loss, our family is still bound by love — and sometimes, by a love of clothes. That sweater made Marsha, our daughters and me happy, and that was the best birthday gift of all.