Approaching Alzheimer’S

By Donald J. Richardson

Alzheimers continues to be of concern to those of us who are aging. As the disease cannot be prevented, cured, or slowed, it remains one of the leading causes of death. Thus, how one deals with it becomes a measure of personality and character. Perhaps this is what Ernest Hemingway was getting at when he talked of performing with grace under pressure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524649647

Donald J. Richardson

Although he has long been eligible to retire, Donald J. Richardson continues to (try to) teach English Composition at Phoenix College in Arizona. He defines his life through his teaching, his singing, his volunteering, and his grandchildren.

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Chapter One

The sun was shining the day I checked into Heritage Manor. I don’t know whether this was a harbinger or not; maybe it was just a beautiful day. At seventy-three, I knew I wasn’t as old as some people who lived at the rest home, but I knew also that my life had been changing; there were things I could no longer do physically, and I was aware that my brain was no longer functioning as it had when I was younger. As a septuagenarian, I knew I had enjoyed my three score and ten years promised by the Bible, but one part of me resented the fact that perhaps that phase of my life was over; maybe it was time for me to begin preparing to meet my maker. So there was a residue of resentment, somewhat like a grudge unfulfilled—promised but never realized.

I had considered several other rest homes: Valley Rest, Harmony Aging, and Peaceful Valley, but Heritage Manor is the one I chose after visiting all of them, observing the patients, and enjoying the complimentary meals. There had been niggling objections to all the others, but if I were honest with myself, I didn’t really like Heritage Manor either. It certainly wasn’t anything like my home, the home I had shared with Faith for thirty-eight years. I had waited to marry as she had, too, even though she was five years younger than I. But in looking back, I think I never actually regretted waiting or eventually getting married. We had had no children, but that wasn’t a sore point for either of us; we had agreed to try to invest in each other the love and consideration we had been looking for in a marital partner, and it worked after a fashion. That is to say, we had our little disagreements about her moving the furniture, and my not being as neat or precise in my living habits as she, but there were never any major arguments. Once when I responded too sharply, she gasped and dissolved in tears. Oh, Martin, she sighed. That wasn’t necessary, was it?

I took her in my arms. No. I’m sorry, Dear.

In truth I believe both of us liked the other and considered ourselves befriended. I have known couples who detested each other and who didn’t have any qualms about letting everyone around them know that they were married to a beast. Our relationship wasn’t like that. We supported each other in all we did, and at a party of any sort, we didn’t tell tales about each other. Often we simply stood there holding hands. Once a woman said to Faith, Don’t you ever get angry at him?

I could hear the repressed emotion in her question; maybe she just wanted evidence to support her own emotional stance.

No, Faith answered. We always seem to get along.

Always? This was quite skeptical.

Well, he does like milk chocolate a bit more than I do. Faith smiled.

The other woman barked a laugh. "Ha. I wish that was all I had to say about my husband."

Of course it was devastating to me when Faith quit this life and went on to her next one. I would challenge anyone who is separated from his soul mate to accept such a life-changing event with equanimity. I couldn’t. I know it’s a cliché to say that I suffered through the funeral and the extended grieving as in a dream, but cliché or not, that’s how it was. I drifted from one place to another, from the grocery store to the church, without actually registering my presence or fully acknowledging people who greeted me, whether in passing or whether in friendship. There were days when I didn’t see the weather or hear the birds singing, days when I couldn’t even acknowledge that I was alive or not. Yet the body is remarkably resilient, and I suppose mine is, too, as it kept on working.

However, there were subtle differences in my life now that I hadn’t seen before. I’m not talking about buttons needing to be sewn back on or holes in socks needing to be mended or dirty dishes stacked helter-skelter in the sink. It went beyond such obvious points. I found I couldn’t remember where the check book was. This hadn’t been a problem before as Faith had handled all of the finances until a few months before she died. The checkbook was always in the top drawer of the desk. Yet when one day I went to get it, it wasn’t there. Attacking the problem logically, I hunted for it in all the obvious places: on the kitchen table, on the stand beside the front door, on the night stand. I was bedeviled by my inability to track it down, and I allowed myself to become angry. Oh, it wasn’t calculated; I didn’t decide to become angry; it just happened, and I resented the whole world for conspiring against me and especially Faith for leaving me to deal with such annoyances on my own.

Naturally, I found the checkbook. It was in my suit where I had left it after changing my clothes after church on Sunday. I was relieved, of course, but at the time I didn’t make a connection to the missing check book and my mental response to the irritation of it being lost.

However, there were other developments which seemed to accrue over time and which seemed to amount to increasing evidence that perhaps I needed someone to help me. I no longer looked after the yards as I had. When my neighbor, Mr. Johansen suggested I should do something about the weeds which had sprung up, I was surprised and annoyed with him. It was easy enough to hire one of the Cleveland boys to do the yards for me, and it relieved me of the chore.

One morning when I added a bit of milk to my coffee, I saw the milk had curdled. When did this happen? I asked myself. The date on the carton revealed that it had expired some time ago. I simply hadn’t noticed it or if I had, it hadn’t registered with me.

When I talked with my sister, Marlene, on the telephone I mentioned that I apparently was becoming forgetful. "Well, Martin, we are getting along in years," she said.

I know, but seventy-three—.

Martin, many people are already dead at seventy-three.

What are you saying?

Martin, you’ve been independent all of your life.

Yes; so have you.

Maybe it’s time for you to ask for help.

Help? You mean hire somebody to come in and live with me? I could never do that. Nobody could ever replace Faith.

Okay. How about a home?

You mean an old folks’ home? A rest home?

Why not? You’ve got the money, so you can afford it. Your meals would all be provided, and you wouldn’t have to worry about taking care of that house by yourself.

I know, but a rest home—.

Well, what’s wrong with a rest home anyway?

Oh, I guess nothing, but I always thought it was for old people—not me.

Martin, I’m the same age as you are, and I’ve accepted that I’m old.

Really?

Yes. Jim is very careful about referring to our ages, but he and I both know that we’re no longer young. The difference is we have our children we can call on. In fact, Sharon has suggested that if we need to, we could even live with them. Not that I want to, you understand, but if something should happen to Jim or me—well, then we might have to consider it. But you’re all alone now.

Yes, I’m all alone.

You should think about it.

That’s just what I did. I talked to Reverend Matthews at First United, and he was very understanding.

When I asked him what I should do, he said, Martin, I can’t tell you that. That’s something you have to work out for yourself.

But Marlene, my sister seems to think I’d be better off in a rest home. A rest home, for gosh sakes!

Martin, I visit our parish rest home every week, and I can tell you that the residents there are taken care of and most of them are happy. They have moved on to an advanced stage of life where they no longer have to concern themselves with paying bills or managing the upkeep of a home or a car. They can meditate and pray as much as they want and prepare themselves for their next phase of life.

I didn’t answer this as I was thinking.

You know, Martin, you do believe in everlasting life, don’t you?

Well, yes, pastor, I do, but I don’t think I’m ready for it yet.

Martin, I imagine very few people are actually ready for it when it comes. Maybe Mother Teresa was, maybe Dr. Tom Dooley was, but even I am probably not prepared for it. But when the Lord calls, Martin, you will have to answer.

Do you think this is a call from the Lord?

"It could be, Martin. We learned in seminary, years ago, to try to resist