Dignifying Dementia by Elizabeth Tierney Read Free Book Online

drove. On the weekends we drove up to Tanglewood to hear concerts conducted by James Conlon, Robert Spano, or Seiji Ozawa.
    Jim struggled to find the right word and avoided conversations, but he still walked to the library and read. He bought groceries. He walked along the paths near the Parkway. He knew how to get home, to unlock a door, to make himself lunch. True, he was walking more slowly and having some ‘memory problems.’ If only his phone call to me about the train tickets, the message on the yellow post-it and the trip into town hadn’t scared me so much.
    During the previous winter, we had changed doctors in South Carolina. At our first meeting with our new internist, Jim had complained about not being able to concentrate. At the time, I had gotten testy when the doctor said, “Let’s rule out Alzheimer’s.” But now, I was unsettled, so I phoned him to express my concern. “Enjoy the summer,” he said, “we’ll look at the problem when you return in the fall.” Because he sounded calm, I tried to be too – sort of.

    Fall came. We packed, and I began the 800-mile drive south. Once on the road, though, I was on edge because I realized how vulnerable Jim was. True, Jim had found the theatre, but if I fell ill or ‘dropped dead,’ Jim would be in trouble. Thanks to the taxi driver’s advice, I had a cell phone plugged into the console of the car for emergency use and had tried to show Jim how to press the buttons, but he had no interest in it or couldn’t learn how to make it work.
    Despite my anxiety, the drive was uneventful. We stopped at Hershey, Pennsylvania for the night and stayed at The Hotel Hershey – only the best for my mildly impaired Jim. I told myself to breathe and not to overreact. In fact, the next day, Jim helped navigate around the Beltway in DC – no easy feat under any circumstances.
    When we arrived in Hilton Head, my neck and shoulder muscles were tight, and I woke up in the middle of the night with my heart racing, and I was sweating. I was scared. I didn’t want to wake Jim, but I called 911 – something I had never done before.
    The emergency medical technicians (EMTs) took my blood pressure and explained that I was OK but asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. I said, “My husband isn’t well.” Jim had slept through their arrival. They left, but I was still in a panic. I woke him and asked him to come to the hospital with me. Irresponsibly, I drove us to the hospital. My heart was OK, but my anxiety level was increasing; our internist gave me a monitor to wear. My fear was no longer just about flying and heights; it was now also about how Jim would manage if something happened to me.
    Shortly thereafter, I met a woman who was asking herself the same question. What would happen to her husband if she died? Her husband had been diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia and she with cancer. I had had the same fear as a single parent when Ellen was little; she, however, was adorable and had healthy grandparents.

    It was only a matter of days after returning to Hilton Head before the next distressing event happened. I had thought that the note on the yellow post-it was bad. Jim awakened and apologized for leaving his new clothes at Paul Stuart in New York. I showed him that they were in the closet and assumed he had had a dream.
    A few days later, however, Jim woke up, sat up in bed, looked at me, smiled and said sweetly, “Where’s your mother?” He asked me just like that. I didn’t understand his question. I didn’t know how to answer. Bewildered, I said, “Mom is dead.” He asked again, “Where’s your mother?” He was calm. I was, too. Was he dreaming? He climbed out of bed, took my hand and walked to the kitchen. He pointed to my handbag sitting on the kitchen counter and said, “Where is she?” I was dumbfounded and horrified. I said, “Sweetie,