You'll forever be my Valentine

'I used to love you, I love you still, and I'll always love you.'

PETER ST. ONGE
The Charlotte Observer

The trip is usually 10 minutes long, from her driveway to her husband's room. Leroy will be happy to see her, of course, and he might toss a playful jab at her, the way he does with visitors. Lollie will have a gift for him on this Valentine's Day.

They'll spend a couple of hours talking or walking or eating dinner. Margie, his friend, will probably be there, too. Sometimes, Lollie finds them walking together outside, or sitting on a bench holding hands.

Leroy doesn't remember he is married to Lollie. He doesn't remember their moments, their milestones, the arc of a shared life. But Lollie does. All of it.

They met in the fall of 1934, Leroy and Lollie. He was a Duke grad, a former captain of the school boxing team. She was a pretty Charlotte girl at her Methodist church's pool party.

She remembers their first date -- a scary movie on Halloween at the Carolina Theatre. He held her hand. "How does the song go?" she says now, and she hums until she hits the right words. "The moment my heart stood still," she softly sings, then stops. "That's what I felt that night when he held my hand."

She also remembers their courtship, how he'd pick her up for breakfast before work every Monday and place a little ceramic elephant -- their mascot -- on the restaurant table between them. He was that kind of sweet after they were married, too.

They had a son and a daughter, and they saved money when there wasn't a lot to save. They were not an outwardly affectionate pair, but one day, when Lollie picked up Leroy from work, she saw him walking down the stairs, so handsome in his suit. "Isn't he wonderful?" she said to her daughter, Martha, sitting with her in the car. Martha still remembers that.

The kids grew up, and Leroy and Lollie traveled, and they went to church, and she enjoyed a book club. Then, nine years ago, Leroy had a quadruple bypass. He was 83, and the surgery seemed to take something from his mind. Two years later, he was diagnosed with early stages of Alzheimer's.

The disease stole the memories he shared with her, then his short-term recall, then finally his ability to be in their house alone. Last summer, the burden was too much for a woman in her 80s. Leroy moved into The Haven, a home in Highland Creek.

She visits him three times a week, usually with Martha, who drives. Leroy doesn't always remember Lollie's name, but he brightens when she walks into a room.

Sometimes, there is a flash of something more, such as the day he looked at her and said: "I used to love you, I love you still, and I'll always love you."

Another day, he said to Lollie, "Hi, you're a nice person," then leaned over to a friend and whispered, "Who is that?"

The friend was Margie, who also has advanced Alzheimer's. She usually is there when Lollie visits. Sometimes, when Lollie is in the room, Margie sits between her and Leroy.

The nurses at the Haven ask Lollie's daughter, Martha, about this. Isn't Lollie jealous? Martha says no, and Lollie shakes her head now. She says she's had Leroy all this time, and she would have him still if his mind were sound. "I'm secure in that," she says. "And I don't want him to be lonely."

And so today, the Valentine's card she has for Leroy won't say nearly as much as the cheerful hello she has for Margie. It's a simple thing, Lollie says, the same as it has been for 70 years. She wants him to be happy. She has their memories. And: "I love him still."