Cause for Applause

Coming to terms with the slippery slope of dementia

It all began about ten years ago, when I was around 70. woke up one morning and went outside to look at my garden. Everything was beautiful until my neighbour asked me the name of a flowering plant, and the page in my mind that held plant names was blank. I could tell her what the plant needed, if you could take cuttings, how long it would take to bloom. I knew if it was an annual or a biannual, or if it was actually a bulb or a shrub. In truth, there was nothing of importance that I couldn’t tell her about it, but I couldn’t tell her its name.

I tried different plants, but the names were all gone. A chapter was missing from a book in my brain’s library. That’s how I described it to the doctor. He thought it might be a stroke. He sent me for a scan. “Your brain is fine,” he told me. “No, you do not have Alzheimer’s.”

I knew he was wrong, but there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it. It took me months to figure out that I needed to solve my memory problem myself. I started to look up the plants and write their names endlessly, until I could remember the most common ones. I still have trouble with many of them, but if someone says the name of a plant, my library still has that information. No one would know something was wrong unless they asked me for the name; then, there might be a blank spot on the page.

I lived like that for the next five years. My losses would be little things, but very obvious to me. When the names of my medications went missing, that was akin to losing another chapter. I got tired of explaining to doctors that, try as I might, the names of medications were gone from my brain’s library. That turned out to be the hardest chapter of all to put back in place. The name of one cream I use for pain is still missing years later, and, try as I might, I cannot remember what to call it. I know what it looks like, feels like, what it is used for and that its name starts with the letter D, but the name itself is gone.

So, after many doctor appointments, I had an M.R.I. Again, I was told nothing was wrong with my brain, but the look on the technician’s face said something different. Afterwards, he said, “I hope you never have to come back for this test again. Good luck.”

I knew something was wrong. But again my doctor told me my brain was fine. He lied.

I was beginning to get angry—at myself, medical people and the world. I was starting to forget where I left things and was always hunting for my purse, keys or the dog’s leash. The frustrations mounted. When my doctor was on a long holiday, I asked another doctor about having Alzheimer’s. He gave me a quiz and said he thought I was fine. It was a dumb test that asked a lot of simple questions, and at the end, he asked me what the first question was. It was a trick question that took me a minute to catch on to. So much for that quiz.

The Final Straw

My final straw was when I could not make coffee without some kind of a mishap. My most recent doctor and I had a real knockdown argument on that topic. I must have won because, by the end, I was given an appointment for a second M.R.I. This time I asked a different doctor to read

the report. Barbara, a doctor specializing in treating pain who’d had me as a patient for ten years, agreed. I knew she would tell me the truth. She did not fail me.

“Your high blood pressure has caused neurological damage to your brain, and you have too many white spots,” she said. “Everyone has some, but you have too many. You need to go home and start planning for the remainder of your life. You are going to have dementia, and if you want to have some say in your care, take care of the planning now.”

I was not surprised. All I could feel as I drove myself home was anger at all the doctors who had told me I was fine.

But back to the problem at hand—making coffee. Something I had done for at least 62 years was almost impossible. I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and deal with the problem.

Coffee, coffee, everywhere and not a drop to drink. The first time, it was a slip up. The second time, it was frustrating. The third time, I was angry at myself. The next time, it was funny.

It took me a week or two before I realized if I wanted to make coffee in the morning without a mess, I had to learn to do it all over again. Them damn wires aren’t going to stop me from my one remaining bad habit.

It was a relief to know what was wrong with me because once I was over the initial shock, I was my old fighting self. The coffee thing became a challenge that I could laugh about.

Sometimes I would forget the water, sometimes I would put in too much. Sometimes—the real funny one—i would forget to put the pot under the drip.

Every morning for a week or two, I tried to make coffee. I always got it, even if it took more than two or three tries. It became something I could tell my family, friends and neighbours about. If I could laugh at it, they could all laugh with me.

New Ways Forward

Then one day, I realized if I can’t change the automatic thinking for making coffee using this pot, I should buy a different kind. It worked. I could learn to do new things more easily than I could fix the old ones. I went through several coffee machines before I bought a French press. It works like a dream.

Did I mention that I quit driving over a year ago? That’s because one night I went out and got in the car and couldn’t remember where to put the key to start it. I was not going to buy a half-dozen new cars just to relearn were the key goes.

Still, since I started writing a lot, I feel so much happier. Me, the one who found being housebound so imprisoning, I learned to thrive on it. I lost some freedoms, but I gained so much knowledge at a time when I am supposed to be declining. I am the happiest I have been in years. I still have a sense of reality, and sometimes I think that is because I accept what is happening to me and fight it all the way.

Baker’s Delight

So what did I do today that makes me feel the need to share my happiness with you? I found a new way to make pastry! I was always good at making pies and cakes. Lots of them were as close to perfect as you can get, and then about six months ago, it was... gone. A white spot stole another chapter from another book. I have thrown out more baking in the past while than in my previous lifetime. I decided it was time to quit trying and gave away my baking dishes. Then a few days ago when I made my coffee, I realized if I wanted to bake, I had to quit trying to do it the old way, when I didn’t have to measure flour to add to the shortening. I’d been baking pies since I was 12 or 13 and never had to measure the salt or put the dough in the fridge to cool. This time, I had to measure all the ingredients and put them in bowls on the counter and do everything the recipe said. It took a lot longer, but it worked. I had an edible pie on my counter on the first try. It wasn’t a ten, but it wasn’t so far from it that I needed to throw it out. The next day I made another pie and it was even better. Yesterday, I baked a definite “Ten!” Now, I just need to find a few people to eat them all. ■