What Time Is It?

This morning, we had to stop at the store on our way to a meeting. I was keeping a close eye on the clock, as being on time was important. We left the house at ten after or so and headed to the store. It's five minutes from the house.

"What time is it?" I asked as I parked the car.

He checked his watch. "9:41," he answered.

"9:41?!" I couldn't imagine how I could have been so wrong about the time when we left the house. Now, I was in a big hurry!

"9:41. Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said, showing me his watch to emphasize the point. "The little hand is on the 9, see? And the big hand is just past the 4. It's 9:41."

Okay. I was relieved that it was only 9:21, and I thought maybe he was just teasing me, as he is wont to do. But I wasn't sure.

So, as we were leaving the store after finishing our shopping, I asked him again what time it was. He glanced at his watch.

"It's 9:82. See?" And he turned his wrist to show me the time. Yep. 9:42.

I think it might be time for a digital watch.

Precious Memories

As I've mentioned before, my husband and I have a long common history. This has been a very valuable tool in helping him to remember things, because I was there, too.

Some of the memories are fun to relive together, looking at photos and being reminded of little details that get lost in the course of daily life, anyway. He probably doesn't actually remember being in some of the exotic locations we've visited, let alone the ordinary ones. But if I show him a photo of a place we've been together, he seems to connect with it. Or maybe he just likes the picture.

My mom's been having health issues of late. Not unusual for a woman in her 90's. But whenever we discuss my mother's health, the subject of his own parents' deaths comes up. He says he doesn't remember how his mother died, so I fill in the blanks for him. She died of cancer at the age of 49. In the early 70's. And then he says he doesn't remember what happened to his father. I remind him that his father was murdered at the age of 65. In the mid-80's. He asks if the responsible parties were arrested and prosecuted. I assure him that they were. He wants to know what has happened to them. One died in prison, the other is still in prison. Knowing this seems to calm him and bring him peace.

Lately, he's even been able to shed a few tears in association with these painful memories. This is something he didn't necessarily allow himself to do before, when his memories were properly filed in cabinets that worked. His emotions are not as tightly controlled as they once were.

This evening, when I was answering his usual questions, I said, "Wow. What would it be like if I wasn't here to answer these questions for you?"

He replied, "I would be a lot less happy."

So would I.

There's a Guest Room

I've been down for the count with a terrible case of the flu this week, so there's been more opportunity than usual for me to notice my husband's newest idiosyncrasies. I will focus here on one that's kind of cute, if seen in the right light. Right now, it's a "brain hiccup" rather than a permanent fixture; however, the horizon looks an awful lot nearer than it once did.

We were working on a jigsaw puzzle (a 100-piece one) together, and he confused me with one of his sisters. He realized he'd made a mistake, so he called me by the other sister's name. So I looked at him and asked him if he knew who I was. He said he'd been a little confused, but he knew who I was, and he said my name.

Then he said, "There are a couple of guest rooms, if you want to spend the night."

I said, "What?!"

Sometimes, it's hard to think before reacting. I took a breath and said, "Of course I'm going to spend the night. I live here."

On the plus side, he seemed delighted that I was staying. And then he seemed relieved to know that, in fact, we are married (to each other). I was happy to know that, should I have been a stranger, he would not have slept with me. Necessarily.

He then started his usual evening questioning. When did we meet? How old am I? How old are you? How long have we been married? Were you with me when I lived in [insert name of place]? What do you think of me? And so on. He is trying to fit the puzzle pieces of his memory together, and I find it interesting that his memory is stuck in the places where it is stuck.

I've noticed lately that he is beginning to have trouble expressing himself and relies on me to know and understand what he's trying to say, because he's lost the rest of the thought before having a chance to say it. It's a sad thing.

Unloading the Groceries

We went to Costco today, and included in our purchase was a set of three plastic bins for storage, nested together. I filled the top one with towels and other light items before placing it in the back seat of the car. Other items were placed in the trunk, loose, because they hadn't been boxed. When we got home, I removed the bins from the vehicle first. Here's our conversation:

Me:  "I'm going to take this inside, unload it, and bring it back out so we can load up the other stuff."

Him:  "What other stuff?"

Me:  "The stuff that's in the trunk."

Him:  "Oh."

Me:  "I'll be right back."

Him:  "Why?"

Me:  "So we can unload the rest of the stuff."

I take the containers inside, unload them, and go right back outside. He is struggling up the drive with a couple of boxed items.

Him:  "I think I dropped a box."

He sees that I am carrying the plastic bins.

Him:  "What are you doing with those?"

Me:  "I'm going to fill them back up."

Him:  "I dropped a box."

He takes his armload into the house. I see the box with the milk cartons on the ground. The box is split open, but nothing is spilling out. I go ahead and fill up the plastic bin with the other purchases. He comes back outside. This is both surprising and pleasing, as he normally would have forgotten that we're in the middle of doing something.

Him:  "Is that all?"

Me:  "Yes, except for the box you dropped." (I say it this way, thinking he will immediately know where to look.)

Him:  "What box? I didn't drop anything." (He is not being defensive. He really doesn't remember dropping it, even though it just happened, and he just told me about it.)

Me:  "It's okay. Nothing is spilling. It's right over there."

He starts to lift the box with one hand. I remind him that it's broken and needs to be picked up with both hands so the cartons don't slip out. He is insulted that I would think he needs to be reminded of this. Sigh.

His True Self

One thing that seems to help with the stress of the situation is hard physical labor. The other day, I decided, basically on the spur of the moment, to shampoo our carpeting. Just the traffic areas. Just on the main level. Believe it or not, this is a major endeavor.

I started the project with quite a bit of, shall we say, pent-up energy. But the thing is, well, it's shampooing the carpets. There's only so much oomph to go around; so, pretty soon, I was "in the groove" and actually feeling pretty good.

That's when my husband decided I should be finished with my work. I should be sitting with him, watching television. This is not an unreasonable request, under normal circumstances. But when you're "in the groove" of shampooing carpets, it's best not to sit down. You might not get back up. So, there was a certain amount of understandable pouting and sighing on his end. He thought I'd been at it for hours and hours, when it had only been...okay, it had been hours and hours. But he thought it had been more hours than it had been. Or something.

I decided to keep doing what I was doing, because it had to get done. I'm sure you've all been there. You can't hire everything out. Or even most things. Not yet, anyway.

I don't pretend to know what led to the next thing I noticed, but it was a beautiful thing. My husband had gone into the back yard, and he was raking leaves. Lots of golden, autumn, fallen leaves. In great, big piles. He saw something that needed doing, he decided to do something about it, and he proceeded to be helpful. Because, you see, my husband has the gift of helps. And, sometimes, it still comes forth in all its shining glory. All by itself. With no hints from me. Deep down, people need to be needed. They need to feel useful. Meaningful.

My heart was so blessed by his kindness and encouraged by his endeavor to be out there, doing something that needed to be done. What else could I do? I went outside, too, and helped him to get those piles of leaves into the trash cans for curbside recycling pickup. I remember when you could just burn them...but that's a whole other blog entirely.

Sometimes, It's Just Hard

Hello, my friends. I know it's been a while since I've posted anything. Thank you to those of you who are curious as to why, because it encourages me to know there are people out there who are following our journey with care and prayers.

Sometimes, it's just hard. There will be a couple of months of "plateau," followed by several weeks when every positive moment is chased away by drama and trauma. I prefer not to post during the frustrating times, because nothing good can possibly come from negativity. And talking about it only makes it harder.

So, if you haven't heard from me in a while, I hope you are praying for us. Because we need those prayers. Sometimes, we need them badly.

In Retrospect

At age 59, my husband was released from his job. At age 60, testing began. And at 61, he was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. These are my thoughts and feelings about our experiences, good and not so good. I hope, on the whole, my chronicles will be an encouragement to you. Thank you for reading them. Hang on to your hope!

Now that I've made this diary "public" (well, more or less), people feel more comfortable asking me questions. That's a good thing, because one of the things I'm hoping to encourage is dialogue. "The Big A" is a scary thing, partly because it's a mystery. Partly because it's in the shadows. Partly because people think it's a mental illness, which it isn't. Because we can't see it, it's hard to know how to react to it. Because it makes us uncomfortable, we shy away from it.

One of the most commonly asked questions I've received is, "What were the warning signs? What did you first notice?"

Well, the problem is that when the warning signs are first happening, it's so easy to attribute them to something else. Alzheimer's isn't exactly the first thing you think of when a relatively young person starts exhibiting symptoms.

My husband was working long hours, and his job was a high pressure one with lots of responsibility not only for his own work, but for the work of others. Was he burning out? Was it hearing loss that was causing his inattention and lack of concentration? Was exhaustion causing the bullheadedness, impatience, and sour disposition? Was it having so much on his mind that was causing him to throw up his hands in frustration at all the paperwork and reports?

Of course, in retrospect, I know it was confusion. Irritation at the confusion. Embarrassment. And fear. When you know you aren't remembering things that should be automatic, things you've been doing excellently for years, it's frightening.

I can hear you saying, "Okay, we get all that. But what were some of the warning signs?"

When he started needing assistance completing spreadsheets, asking me for help with the same things over and over ("How do you freeze the rows at the top again?"), was that a warning sign, or was it just easier to ask me than to look it up? When he didn't have time to complete his reports, so I pitched in to help him catch up, was that a warning sign? When he worked longer and longer hours without being able to complete his tasks, was that a warning sign? Should I have known at that point, or would a person blame overwork?

When I helped him organize his office and there were a half-dozen copies of everything in piles on his desk and in desk drawers and in filing cabinets, yet he was making another copy, should I have realized he didn't remember having a bunch of them already? Because I thought he was just in a hurry to meet a deadline and didn't want to waste time searching the stacks.

When he refused my offer to consolidate the paperwork for him, was it because he thought I wouldn't realize I was throwing away something important, or was it because every piece of paper had become important to him, and hoarding behaviors had begun? And what is the difference between a hoarding behavior and, say, a prized collection?

When he angrily thought someone must have taken something he couldn't find, rather than simply assuming (like most people would) that the item had been misplaced, is that when I should have known?

And so, you see, the "first warning signs" are things you only notice in retrospect. They are different from the later warning signs...the repeating of a story right after telling it, the forgetting whether or not you've eaten a meal, the wondering where your kids live and how many grandchildren you have. I should have know, but I didn't. And, probably, neither will you.

But if things are happening that have you wondering, please get your loved one checked out. There's no cure yet, but there are medications that can slow the progress of the disease. And hang on to your hope.