Dignifying Dementia by Elizabeth Tierney Read Free Book Online Page A

that’s MY bag.” Jim was looking for me.
    Within five or 10 minutes, he was fine, and I was “Elizabeth” again. We sat down on the sofa. He said he felt a little heavy- headed and had no recollection of what had happened. I called our internist, who saw Jim that morning. After examining him, he said, “I am going to refer you to a neurologist, so we can rule out Transitory Ischemic Attacks (TIAs), mini-strokes.” Aaah, ‘to rule out.’ Soon, I would wish that doctors could ‘rule in.’
    At our appointment, the neurologist asked Jim to count backwards by threes and to name the presidents in reverse order. That presidential question bothered me. I wanted to say, “We have been living in Ireland; ask him the names of the Irish or British prime ministers.” I refrained. He also asked Jim to draw some diagrams, which he did with difficulty. Then the doctor recommended that Jim have a magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) scan.
    We returned to the neurologist’s office for the results of the MRI. The doctor slapped the films against the light box and said, “This is brain shrinkage, and I am 90% sure you have Alzheimer’s.” After that announcement, I tried to listen to his description of Jim’s shrinking brain, but I stopped hearing and asking. I should have said, “What does brain shrinkage mean?” I should have said, “What about the TIAs? What does 90% sure mean?” I didn’t. The doctor never looked at or spoke to Jim again, except when Jim asked quietly, “Do I need a home?” The neurologist said, “Why do you ask that?” and continued describing to me what he saw on the images – too much science.
    He wrote a prescription for Zoloft to alleviate depression and Aricept to slow the progression of memory loss and told us to come back in three months. He recommended that Jim see a local psychologist for testing. Then he shook our hands, smiled and said, “Have a Merry Christmas!” He added happily, “I’m taking my family to Disney World.” Like a robot, I said I was happy for him and wished him a Merry Christmas. I was numb. What had Jim comprehended? What were the implications of what we had been told? The doctor was only 90% sure, and we had a prescription for two drugs.
    We had an emergency room doctor saying “Dementia,” our internist saying “Let’s rule out TIAs,” and a “90% Alzheimer’s” diagnosis from the neurologist. Could this be true? Didn’t everyone’s brain shrink with age? Maybe, oh maybe, the psychologist would be able to shed some light on what was happening.
    That night when we climbed into bed, I hugged Jim and wept. He said, “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll get through it.”

    Jim never liked tests, quiz shows, puzzles, card games or filling out applications. I had tried to twist his arm to play Scrabble. From time to time, I could get an answer to a crossword puzzle query. As for therapy, Jim accepted other people’s seeing psychologists and psychiatrists, but he saw therapists as pseudo-priests who listened to confessions. However, in an effort to get more answers, and still believing we would, we followed up with the psychologist. Given his antipathy for short answer quizzes, I wondered how he would handle a ‘battery of tests.’ Wasn’t it humiliating enough to be asked to count back from 100 by threes? He was willing to go. I prayed we would learn more.
    The entryway to the psychologist’s office was the first challenge. We looked at each other as we tried to figure out whether the door opened into a waiting room or into a private office. Finally, Jim knocked. The psychologist opened the door. Jim said, “I didn’t know what to do, so I knocked.” “Well, that’s one way to handle it,” the psychologist said. Oh God, we are part of a ‘door-opening’ experiment. Not an