No doubt, doctors have more than a little experience with despair in their patients who have been diagnosed with horrible diseases. So they wanted me to have a conversation with my husband, probably assuming he would be more likely to share any deep emotions with me than with them. Not quite knowing how to broach the subject, I just blurted it out one day, a long time ago. He didn't seem particularly morose to me, but I wanted to give him a chance to talk to me if he needed to. The conversation went something like this:
"Harry, do you ever feel depressed or hopeless or anything like that?" I stammered and stumbled. I have a tendency to get "foot-in-mouth disease" when I don't quite know what to say and the subject is uncomfortable.
"No," he responded, "Why?"
"Well, the doctors said it isn't unusual for people with Alzheimer's to be depressed about it, and some people think about hurting themselves. The doctors thought it would be a good idea for me to talk to you about that."
"Okay."
"So, I want to make sure you know that it's okay for you to talk to me about anything that's bothering you."
"Okay."
"I want to know that if you ever thought of hurting yourself, you would know that you can talk to me about it. I don't want you to hurt yourself. I'm here for you."
"Hurt myself?!" It was as though he suddenly realized what the conversation was about, and he was startled and incredulous. "Why would I hurt myself? I would NEVER do that. I want to live!"
"I want to live" is a sentiment he expressed on more than one occasion after being diagnosed. Perhaps part of the reason for his outlook was that he eagerly volunteered early on to take part in research studies at U. C. Davis. It was something that he and I did together (and continue to do) as a team, and it gave purpose and meaning (albeit altruistic) and hope to life with Alzheimer's.
He seemed to enjoy telling people that he was a "guinea pig," even though he wasn't in any drug studies. We anticipated, of course, that his participation in ADNI and other research would help others down the road. And we also hoped we would learn of a promising study that would end up being a cure. That hasn't happened. Yet. Even if it did, it would probably be too late to help him at this point. It's hard to imagine anything short of a major creative miracle restoring all that has been stolen by this disease.
I don't mean to imply that participation in research, going to counseling, having interventions, being blessed with a happy-clappy caregiver, or a myriad of other things would prevent someone's untimely death by his or her hand. We all know better. I'm sure there are plenty of folks who have attempted suicide in spite of having tried everything. But I'm awfully glad my husband wasn't one of them, because while this journey has been and continues to be difficult, there have been many tender moments along the way for us to share. And they are still happening, even now. It seems strange to say so, but it's true. Life may be hard, but it's worth living. Don't give up.
For more information about dementia and suicide, there are many articles available on the internet. Here's one that's easy to understand, lists risk factors, and gives suggestions about how to respond when someone with dementia talks about suicide.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (free, confidential, available 24/7). Don't suffer in silence. Please reach out. Call 1-800-273-8255.
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