 |
| Joe at Pebble Beach in 1994 |
It’s
dark. It must be at least eleven o’clock
by now and it’s raining. I don’t
remember hearing about rain in today’s forecast. We’ve been in the car for several hours, at
least that’s how it seems. I’m tired but
I’ve got to stay awake, Joe might need help seeing the road. These mountain passes are windy and narrow
and I’m wishing we’d taken another route.
“Slow down!” Why is he driving so fast?
Is it me or
is Joe too close to the edge of the road?
Suddenly I remember:
“Wait a
minute, why are you driving? You have
Alzheimer’s. You haven’t driven for
almost two years. How on earth did this
happen? You’ve got to pull over.”
I realize
the car is now in the air and I can feel the weight of gravity pushing us
down. It seems like we’ve been falling a
long time. The car lands on the hillside
and we roll like a barrel down to the bottom of the canyon. It’s odd but I don’t feel pain. I don’t feel anything.
I awaken as
the car jerks to a stop. I sit up in bed
and try to reorient myself. I squint to look
at the clock. It’s 3 AM, and I look over
at Joe lying beside me and hear him breathing.
I fluff my pillow and lie down again but I’m not going back to sleep. I’m
wide awake. Jeez!
It’s not the
first time I’ve had this dream. They’re
not all exactly the same but they always involve Joe in the driver’s seat and me
trying to get us stopped. I’ll bet Freud
could have told me why this is happening.
Maybe there’s an online source for dream interpretations that I could use
to investigate this phenomena.
I remember
going to get auto insurance when we first moved to Arizona, and how confused
the agent seemed that Joe still had a valid Oregon driver’s license but would
not be included on the policy. The agent
made me repeat to him several times that under no circumstances would Joe get behind
the wheel. (I had the urge to be sarcastic and say something like, “Well, Joe
won’t drive unless I’m really busy and he needs something important like ice
cream.”) Of course Joe wouldn’t be
driving the car. I may be blonde but I’m
not stupid.
I think I’m
developing an attitude.
A couple of
weeks ago we were at the clinic to see Joe’s endocrinologist (the Diabetes
guy). This was our initial appointment
and since one of the first words on Joe’s chart is “Dementia” I had expected a
friendly, welcoming doctor whose communication would adapt to Joe’s situation. This was not the case. Even after asking the doctor to slow down and
speak directly to Joe, all we saw was the back of the doctor’s head as he mumbled
and focused on his laptop. So much for
bedside manner.
As we’re
leaving the appointment I ask Joe if he understood any of what the doctor had
said. Of course he hadn’t but, he tells
me, he thought it might be that the doctor had been speaking another language. Seriously!
Most people
don’t understand that communicating with someone struggling with
Dementia/Alzheimer’s requires a different way of communicating. I tend to speak in stream of consciousness, a
continuous flow of ideas and thoughts largely unedited, which doesn’t work for
Joe. All he hears is an unconnected,
unorganized succession of words. It’s
taken me a while to understand this and remember that our conversations can’t flow
like they once did.
Now when Joe
and I talk, I first have to be a good listener (which I typically am not). Then, I have to focus only on a couple things
I need Joe to understand. Asking several
questions at a time will net an answer to none.
I have to admit, sometimes it feels a bit cramped and confined. After a few days of only talking with Joe, I
start to twitch. I find myself
“talking-the-leg-off” anyone who dares to call me, and frequently wind up
apologizing for talking too much. But I
have to remember that there will come a time when I too may need a little more help
and will appreciate someone making adjustments for me. I’m not immune to any of this.
Last week,
we saw Joe’s dermatologist, and as I’ve feared might happen with Joe’s fair
skin and a childhood spent on a ball field without sun protection (not to
mention years on the golf course), this visit involved a rather large divot
taken from his cheek for biopsy. As
we’re walking back to the car I’m thinking this guy really doesn’t need anything
else to deal with. Enough is enough.
You may have
noted that I didn’t mention Al at all in this post. I’m refusing to acknowledge him. I’m taking a break from Al. But just in case he can hear me, “Al, you
will not get us down. No matter what you
do or say to Joe I will outlast you because I’m durable and persistent”. And, just to prove I’m in control, I’ve
stopped eating pasta. Now that’s
attitude.
 |
| Joe at the ball park 2015 |
