Softly Into the Night: An End of Life Love Story

This is a picture story about life — of joys and sadness, of challenges and struggles and sacrifice. It’s a story about dementia and caregiving. It’s a story about souls and spirit and deepening devotion. Mostly, though, this is a love story.

It begins with Wayne Roberts, a big and burly guy with a Harley but as personable and approachable as they come. I met him when I was shooting photos for a story about the final daily delivery of The Montana Standard. He’s one of the bundle carriers, and in just a short and easy conversation, I got a glimpse into his life.

It was simple, really. When he wasn’t at work, he was caring for his wife, Lynne, who had onsets of dementia. When he was at work, he was thinking of her.

I wasn’t looking for a story about caregiving but there was a warmth and openness about Wayne and Lynne that tugged me to tell one through my camera.

They welcomed me into their home and lives to tell it — an hour here and there at first, then whole mornings and afternoons, then overnight stays once or twice a week.

There were times I just stayed and talked without taking a single picture, but with their comfort and trust, I became part of their world, in a way, and was able to photograph most anything.

They were mostly simple scenes of daily living and caring, some sensitive, some not, and as dementia stole more and more of Lynne’s mind, her world got smaller and Wayne was her only gateway to it. He paved it with tenderness.

Lynne’s health declined abruptly last spring. She spent her final days in hospice and died quietly on an early Thursday morning in June, with Wayne by her side as he had been day and night for months. He whispered his goodbyes.

This is their story.

“If one person that reads this, and gets some solace from it, then what we did was good. And she didn’t die in vain.”

Wayne Roberts

Wayne's letter:

Wayne and Lynne Roberts allowed their final year together and the struggles they faced to be told through photographs. Wayne also wanted to share his recollections and insights in his own words, which he does here:

Lynne and I met online on the 29th of August, 2010 through an obscure social website. She posted a picture of herself that caught my eye and we began conversing, me from Klamath Falls, Oregon and her from Butte, Montana.

Our fondness grew quickly and were at an age where we didn't need the courting ritual that most couples go through.

She was 64 with a heart as big as the sky, I was 55 and she opened her heart and her home to me. We were married in June of 2011.

Five weeks later, she suffered a double stroke in the middle of the night. She spent three days in the hospital but recovered extremely well. She didn’t slur her words, didn’t need a cane to walk, and for 10 years, our marriage was rich with love and companionship.

We traveled and enjoyed our family. We remodeled the bathroom and put in a backyard patio. We spent as much time as we could outdoors and invited friends and family often. We were living life to the fullest, as they say.

Then came small, subtle hints of dementia, like forgetting someone's name or why she had come into the kitchen.

In just months, she started losing interest in doing things we enjoyed. Traveling became difficult and in town, dining out, going shopping and even going outside lost their appeal.

As the weeks passed, she spent more and more time just staring into space. I tried to engage her, asking often what she was thinking about. “Oh, nothing,” she would say. Taste for her favorite foods faded until she lost her appetite. Nothing I suggested fixing for dinner sounded good to her.

Her mind and memory continued to decline to the point she could no longer track expenses. She headed out to have her hair done one day and forgot how to drive. It was the last time she tried. She couldn’t recall things we had done together but she would remember moments in time before we met.

Lynne was a very intelligent woman, very sure of herself, but her dementia robbed her of that, a little bit every day. She knew she was losing her mind and it made her angry and scared.

“My love for her in a lot of ways has grown because of what she’s going through. And all I can do for her is to make it as easy for her as I can.”

– Wayne Roberts 

Her condition deteriorated dramatically in her final few months. She tried to do things around the house when left alone that defied logic, like moving items that had been in place for years. Her short-term memory became almost non-existent and I found myself repeating conversations I had with her, sometimes on the same day.

I installed cameras throughout the house so I could make sure she was OK when I was away. On a few occasions, she would get up from her recliner, start walking without her walker or cane, lose her balance and fall. I would rush home, get her back to the recliner, and exhausted, she would drift off to sleep. She was most comfortable sleeping in the recliner.

A turning point came early in the morning on April 6^th.

I was on my way home, watching her on my phone, and saw her get up, with only socks on her feet, and make it out the door. It was 28 degrees outside but I couldn’t see her. I raced home to find her about 30 feet down the sidewalk, clutching the fence for dear life.

I took her in my arms and asked, "Where are you going, baby?" She said she didn’t know and didn’t even know where she was. I got her inside, warmed her feet and asked again where she was planning to go. She said she was going home. 

That was the last night I ever left her alone.

When I couldn’t be there, friends I trusted were and every one of them was wonderful to Lynne. It wasn’t easy. She could no longer walk to the bathroom, even with assistance, so we placed a small portable toilet next to her chair. 

Not long after her excursion outside, she became so unwieldy one night, I called an ambulance and got her to the hospital. Within two days, the doctor said she would not recover and sent her home for hospice care.

I knew I would lose my wife to this horrendous disease years before that moment, but reality hit hard. I was terrified, feeling ill-qualified to take care of Lynne in her final days, and I was angry they wouldn’t place her in assisted living.

“My goal is to make her last part of life fright free. I never want her thinking she has to go alone.”

– Wayne Roberts

Medicare provided us with a hospital bed and aides through Enhabit Home Health and Hospice. They had come to the house previously to provide physical therapy and help my wife bathe, and they were a true blessing. Some very close friends helped, too, giving care and staying with Lynne at night so I could work.

I thank God for all of them.

A friend covered for me at work during the last three weeks of Lynne’s life and I never left her side.

“I feel like my heart has been ripped in two and left with jagged edges. One side of it doesn’t want to let her go. And the other sure wishes that she would peacefully cross.” – Wayne Roberts

It was an easy choice. My wife deserved the best care possible and I did what any loving husband or wife would do. It was my honor to be her caregiver.

Still, there were times I looked upwards and asked, “Why? Why does she have to go through this? Why is this being prolonged? Take her and give her peace.”

That moment came on June 6, 2024, at 8:45 a.m., when I watched my wife of nearly 13 years take her last breath.

I pray that wherever she is and she looks back on this, she feels like I did enough, that I did the right things. Sometimes I don’t think so. Sometimes I think I could have done better.

Lynne and I met in the twilight of our lives and we loved every day. She came into my life when I needed her most and I still owe her so much. 

I will carry her with me the rest of my life. But I miss her. A thousand times a day, I miss her.

Epilogue:

In the months following Lynne Roberts’ death, Wayne Roberts' life is moving forward. He still delivers the paper three times a week, now with a shaved head and a full beard. He sold his and Lynne’s old home and moved in with a friend.

“We had nearly 14 really good years in that house,” Wayne said. “And I have a lot of love for that house. But emotionally I couldn’t stay there. I can’t look at that room and not think about her dying.”

Wayne has good days and hard days. He spends more time with friends. He goes to football games again, something he missed while taking care of Lynne. He’s riding his motorcycle again. He’s learning to live without Lynne being here.

But she will always hold a special place in Wayne’s heart and losing her still hurts. He’s not trying to hide from the pain.

“I don’t look at grief like a weight on my shoulders,” he said. “I look at grief as a part of who I am. People tend to take grief and they want to shut it out of their life and put a wall up between them and what was. And I’m not going to do that, I refuse to do that."