It's in our struggles that we grow

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” F. Scott Fitzgerald

While driving from Spokane to Seattle, I decided not to tell anyone about the diagnosis I had just received. I could not tolerate pity, or have friends drifting away because they didn’t know how to deal with it. And I didn’t want to burden family. There wasn’t anything they could do, so why worry them. I was still having trouble absorbing the reality of having yet one more life-changing event. Wasn’t I already dealing with enough? I tried not to feel sorry for myself. Tears filled my eyes, more out of frustration and maybe a little fear. I wondered how I could still cry, yet not have enough tears to keep my eyes from drying out.

It was still light when I arrived at Misty’s -- mid-June and twilight lingered late into the evening. Mikey and the dogs kept each other entertained. We talked awhile, then Misty made up a bed for me.  I was very tired and fell asleep quickly.

The next morning, over coffee, Misty told me that my Dad recently had a mild heart attack and the doctor put in a stint. No one had told me. That reaffirmed my decision not to tell anyone about being diagnosed with an autoimmune disease – at least not now.

“I call him every week,” I said. “I can’t believe he didn’t say anything.”

“He didn’t want anyone to know,” said Misty. “Everything went well. He didn’t want anyone to make a fuss. He takes nitroglycerin when he gets chest pains.”

“He’s 88 years old this year,” I said.

“I came home from work one day last week and caught him mowing the lawn,” Misty said. “I took his lawn mower away.  He was mad.  The next day I drove by and he was out in the yard with a weed whacker.  I took that away too.”

I spent the rest of the day with my parents.  My dad seemed fine, in good spirits and had a lot of energy.  He told me about Misty taking away his lawn mower.

“I’ll just have to go buy a new one,” he grumbled.

We were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Mother was taking a nap.

“Why do you have sticky notes all over the appliances,” I asked, pointing to one on the microwave.

“Your mother gets forgetful sometimes,” he said. “I put little reminder notes around for her.”

I looked closer at the one on the dishwasher. “PUT DIRTY DISHES HERE” it read.

If she didn’t remember what a dishwasher was for, would she remember how to read? I wondered.  I didn’t voice the thought. Dad was so pleased with his sticky notes.

Just then my mother came down the hallway and looked at us.

“There you are, sitting there drinking coffee and wasting time,” she said. “I thought you were going to the grocery store.”

“I am,” said my Dad. He looked at me.  “Will you stay here and keep your mother company while I run to the store?” he asked.

“Sure.”

She and I went into the living room and sat down.  We chatted for awhile, about nothing in particular.

“I have a daughter named McKenzie,” said my mother.

Uh oh, I thought. Obviously she was having a memory lapse and didn’t recognize me. I wasn’t sure how to handle this, so I decided to humor her.

“That’s nice,” I answered.

This would be interesting. At this point I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what she told other people about me. My dad seemed to be gone a really long time.  I kept hoping I would hear the garage door open.  This was really uncomfortable and I started to fidget.

I listened to my mother tell me about where I went to high school and college.  Then she told me about my brother. I nodded a lot and tried to say encouraging things, hoping she would snap out of her dementia episode.  I knew my mother had memory lapses, but had no idea it was this bad.

Then she said, “Shouldn’t you be going home now?”

Obviously she thought I was a neighbor visiting, a stranger. I had heard stories about people with dementia attacking family members because they didn’t recognize them and thought they were robbers.

I was so glad to hear the hum of the garage door opening.

The next morning the phone rang.  It was my dad and he sounded frantic.

“I thought I had hidden the car keys, but your mother found them and she took off in her car.  We need to go find her.  She will get lost and who knows how far she will drive,” he said.

It was Saturday, and Misty didn’t have to work. She called Larry to come help and then we ran for my car.  Misty rode with me. We were in a residential area, but close to a main thoroughfare that could take my mother to the I-5 freeway. I drove slowly, watching for her car. She hadn’t taken the newer car, but was driving the old one she couldn’t part with, a 1967 Oldsmobile Delta 88. It was a big boat of a car, that hadn’t been driven for years and she could hardly see over the steering wheel. I wondered how she had managed to back it out of the garage without hitting something.

We cruised along slowly, looking everywhere.   We were on the main street that led to Bothell Way, a busy four lane highway.  Just then I saw the Oldsmobile shoot across the road in front of us and disappear onto a residential street. I could barely see the top of my mother’s head through the side window.  I took off after her, but she must have turned onto a side street. Her car was nowhere in sight.  I was stunned that she could disappear so fast. After about a half hour and no further sighting, we decided to return to Misty’s and call the police. As we passed by my parents’ house, the Oldsmobile was sitting in the driveway.  Mother was nowhere in sight. We found her in the house, in the kitchen. She acted like nothing was wrong.

Later I talked to my dad about finding an Alzheimer’s unit for mother. I felt it was too much for him to handle alone, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“I can take care of her just fine,” he said firmly. “She’s staying here with me.”

“What if you had another heart attack and she didn’t remember how to dial the phone?” I asked.

“There’s a sticky note on the phone that says ‘dial 911’” he answered.

“What if she forgets who you are and attacks you because she thinks you’re a burglar?”

“She won’t,” he said. “Misty is next door and she checks on us all the time.”

I gave up. It was his choice and I could understand his point.  They had been married over 60 years – married longer than they had been single.

I spent a lot of the time sleeping while in Seattle.  The drive over had left me exhausted and I couldn’t seem to get enough sleep. I felt like I was letting everyone down, because I just didn’t have the energy. The long drive, the disturbing news, had taken a toll. The following Monday I decided to return home to Hungry Horse. It was time and I had prescriptions to fill, decisions to make. I hadn’t told my dad about the autoimmune diagnosis.  He had enough to worry about.

Just when I was getting my bearings, feeling my way into a new life in a new place and now my world was rocked once more. I was having trouble grasping all of it.