Midnight Chronicles: A Love Story

By Betty Roberts

In late January of 2009, author Betty Roberts needed to confront what she had suspected for weeks and even months. Her husband, Paul, was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. A member of the Apollo team who helped put the man on the moon, he was now forgetting how to live like a man on earth. In Midnight Chronicles, she shares her husband’s journey as he deals with Alzheimer’s day after day.
Told in journal format through the eyes of his nurse/caregiver/wife, it relates the effect on his life and on the lives of his family from the early, undiagnosed stage one to the disability of stage seven. Betty covers, in detail, the seven stages of Alzheimer’s and what they did to handle and combat each stage as it occurred.
Offering firsthand insight into this disease, Midnight Chronicles shares the details of Betty’s life with Paul, including the challenges, the choices, the tears, the fears, the grief, but most of all the love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532044984

Betty Roberts

Betty Roberts was born in Wyoming County, West Virginia, graduated high school at Matoaka High, followed by graduation from the University of Virginia School of Nursing in Charlottesville, Virginia. Betty had an active career as a nurse, working in the delivery room or as a General Supervisor, with the last eight years of her nursing career spent in long term care. Betty also attended the University of Alabama in Huntsville and in Tuscaloosa, concentrating on her first love, writing. After retiring, Betty studied oil painting and with seven children and numerous grands and greats, she has no problem getting rid of her paintings. Betty spends her time writing, painting and enjoying her large family. Her other works: Leaning into the Wind: The Wilderness of Widowhood (under the name of Betty Bryant), Midnight Chronicles: A Love Story by Betty Roberts, Cave-In a short story published in the Scribbler, University of Alabama in Huntsville Magazine (under the name of Betty Osborne) and her latest book Still Climbing published under the name Betty Roberts.

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Copyright © 2018 Betty Roberts.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-4497-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4499-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4498-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018902712

iUniverse rev. date:  02/28/2018

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Prologue

Book 1

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Book 2

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Book 3

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Book 4

Book 5

Book 6

Book 7

Notes

AUTHOR’S NOTE

T his isn’t fiction; this is the god-awful truth about a god-awful illness. There is nothing made up or contrived about the path we are destined to follow. There are no guidelines; every case is different. There is no cure and no specified time frame. It could go quickly, or it could go on and on for years until the end of the road.

Eight years in the writing, Midnight Chronicles tells the story of a strong man’s journey as he deals with Alzheimer’s day after day. Told through the eyes of his nurse/caregiver/wife, it relates the effects on his life and on the lives of his family members from the early, undiagnosed stage 1 to the disability of stage 7. A member of the Apollo team who helped put the man on the moon, he now forgets how to live like a man on earth.

It was nearly twelve when he called, What are you doing?

Playing at the computer, I answered.

I was hoping he would assume I was playing solitaire, which I did frequently, but apparently he could see the computer screen from the bedroom.

After a while, he asked, What are you writing?

I’m writing about you, I replied. Do you mind?

There was a long silence, and then he said, No, I don’t mind—as long as it’s true. No fiction!

What would he have said if I’d told him I was writing about Alzheimer’s?

I see every man as a hero, every woman a heroine—a knight or a knightess—who takes up a sword and shield against a steadily encroaching monster, who, with no choice in the matter, continues to live out his or her days in confusion and solitude. It is this solitude I want to address here.

Perhaps a better title would be A Caregiver’s Bible, for the book covers in detail the seven stages of Alzheimer’s and what we did to handle each stage as it occurred.

My husband was a brave man. He married a widow with five children. Will he be as brave when he learns the truth about his illness? Will I?

Titles by Betty Roberts

Nonfiction

Leaning into the Wind: The Wilderness of Widowhood (under the name of Betty Bryant)

Fiction

Cave In, short story (under the name of Betty Osborne)

For my husband

and caregivers,

whoever they are.

Chronicles—A historical record of events in the order in which they happened.

—Webster’s New College Dictionary

What is marriage anyway except a lien against the future? Sometimes it lasts until maturity; sometimes it lapses due to low interest, sometimes it expires from old age or health problems too difficult to overcome.

—anonymous

Alzheimer’s—A severe neurological disorder marked by progressive dementia and cerebral cortical atrophy.

—Webster’s New College Dictionary

PROLOGUE

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H e came to the classroom door, looked in, and then turned and went back into the hall; he leaned against the wall and watched as the students entered the room. He was a tall man with dark hair combed back but with a wave over a high brow. He had a fair complexion and dark eyes that eventually met mine as he became aware I was watching him.

He wore a short-sleeved white dress shirt and khaki pants, standard summer uniform for the thousands of Arsenal employees and half of the male students at our local university.

He smiled, pushed himself off the wall, came into the room, and sat down in the seat directly behind me. Leaning forward, still smiling, he said, Hi. My name is Paul.

We were enrolled in an English class that was nearly all eighteen-and nineteen-year-olds—me for fun, Paul in a half-desperate effort to complete an engineering degree started several years previously but interrupted by the necessity of returning to the workforce.

The attraction between us grew through the fall and winter but was never discussed. We were friends—friends who went to lunch with four other friends about our age, the six of us filling the large booth at the Pizza Hut. We talked about our class, our term papers, our spouses, our children, and our jobs.

After the class ended, Paul would call me occasionally, and we would meet for lunch at Burger King. We shared our marital problems, talked about our children and our jobs—he was an industrial engineer, and I was a night supervisor at a local hospital. Gradually time intervened, and our get-togethers stopped. We lost contact.

Several years later, Paul saw my oldest daughter, Julie, in the hall at the university, and he asked about me. Julie told him about her father dying and that I had moved to Florida. Paul was now employed by a telephone-manufacturing company and had unlimited access to free phone service while at work. He obtained my phone number from Julie and called me.

On the phone, he immediately told me he was now divorced; I told him about my husband’s suicide. It was as if I were sitting across the table from him in Burger King, old friends catching up with each other on our current statuses—but both of us were very aware we were now free. After a month of phone calls almost daily and letters two or three times a week, we began making plans to see each other. One of my daughters was expecting her first child, and I made arrangements with my job to go back home to help her with the new baby.

Paul took me out the first night I was there, our first date, and he did it up right—suit, white shirt, and tie and dinner reservations at the best place in town. He kissed me good night at my daughter’s door.

The next evening, he came right from work. It was his birthday. I cooked dinner and made him a birthday cake. It was a great evening, and I was surprised at how well he fit into my family, the four of us and the new granddaughter. Unfortunately, the next morning, I had to return to Florida; we promised to continue to write and call each other.

Not long after Kathy and I moved to Florida, my dad sold his farm and joined us. Mom had passed away, and he was alone—as was I. We bought a house in the same subdivision in which my older sister and her husband lived, one with almost adjoining backyards. The houses were built around a small lake surrounded by huge oak trees, their branches almost reaching the ground; there was always a breeze under those trees, and with the water, it was comfortable and pleasant, like a summer day, even though it was October.

Paul drove down to visit in a bright-red sports car. He stayed with us, and I was very glad to see him. After a late breakfast, he and I walked around the lakefront. Stopping at one of the tables, he took his handkerchief and flicked off the oak leaves so I could sit down without staining my white shorts.

I was at your graduation, I told him.

You were? I didn’t see you! he said in surprise. I wish I had known.

I laughed. Well, there were only about eight hundred there. You know, Julie graduated in the same class. She was only a few rows ahead of you. You looked great in that cap and gown, really dignified.

Dignified! Me? he laughed.

I loved his laugh. I thought back to our time together in that English class. He’d been so serious, working so hard to complete the class, that he had seldom laughed.

What were you doing at the school when you saw Julie? I asked.

I’m taking some computer classes; they will apply if I decide to go for a master’s. Just something I want to do. Keeps me busy and out of trouble, he replied.

We moved on, circling the lake, and along the way, his hand found mine. It felt so comfortable, even with his six feet two and my five feet two. It was just right.

You were working before you started school, weren’t you? I asked.

We were in Winston Salem, he said.

That’s right in the mountains, isn’t it? I knew it was, but I wanted to keep him talking.

I was working at Western Electric, he said. Remember after the moon landing all the engineers were laid off? Well, I got caught in that downsizing and was out of a job. I had a friend who was hired by Western Electric; he called me, and I went to work with him.

I miss the mountains, I said, and so does Dad.

I enjoyed that area, Paul said. I didn’t particularly like the snow in the winters, and Anne didn’t like it. She didn’t like anywhere except home. We lived in Washington while I was in service, and she didn’t like it there either.

What did you do in Washington?

Well, I was just a corporal when they sent me there. They put me in charge of the radar stations around the Washington–Baltimore perimeter. That was during the Cold War. I had eighteen radar sites and twenty-six technicians. Only two out of the twenty-six didn’t have college degrees—me and one other. I made sergeant right after I got there; rank was what put me in charge, but then I had gone to radar school too. That was one stressful job.

As stressful as NASA?

NASA was out of the frying pan and into the fire! He picked up a stick and broke it in two before flinging the pieces into the water. I saw the change in his face; it was the wrong time to talk about the eleven years he had spent working in the space program. I switched the subject back to our common ground.

Was that when you decided to go back to school?

Probably. I knew I’d never get anywhere without a degree. I had two years of college, and Anne and I made a deal. We would go back home if she let me go back to school. So she got a job and I started classes. By that time the kids were both in school, so she could work.

We had reached my house and lingered in the driveway. Paul leaned against his little red sports car.

When did you get this? I exclaimed. It’s a beauty!

First thing I did after the divorce! he said. I figured if I was going out chasing women, might as well go all the way! He laughed, and I laughed with him.

Not wanting to talk about his ex-wife, I changed the subject again.

Let’s go in, and I’ll find some lunch, I said.

Can I take you out somewhere? he asked.

No, I have to fix for Dad and Kathy, so we might as well eat here.

We did go out Saturday night, and Paul left early Sunday morning, driving the fifteen-hour trip in a little more than twelve hours. He called to tell me he was home and ended the conversation with I love you, sweetheart.

I decided right then I was going to find a way to see him again, one way or another!

In November, I drove to see Paul, leaving Kathy in the care of my dad and her aunt Patricia. A formal proposal was never made; we just started house-hunting, both of us taking it for granted we would be married. We found an ideal home, a brick house on a heavily wooded five-acre lot and only fifteen miles from his work. It was wonderful, deep in the woods with tall pines, a lovely little pond down the hill, and a great place for a garden. Paul handled the purchase of the house and closed on it mid-December, while I made arrangements to move my houseful of furniture back home.

We were married in December, between Christmas and New Year’s, in his hometown and at his home church. We spent our honeymoon moving Paul out of his apartment and into the house. At the time, those six months had dragged by; we couldn’t wait to be together. It was so right! Our children fit together, his two spaced between my five, but only Kathy lived with us full-time. Bobby lived with his mother and spent weekends with us every other week. The others were grown and on their own.

Paul smiles with his eyes, and they still light up when he sees me coming, just as they did in that university classroom nearly forty years ago.

BOOK 1

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It was the best of times; it was the worst of times …

—Charles Dickens

PART 1

January 28, 2009

T oday was the first time I’ve had to make a decision that was difficult for me based on my real fear of what our future has in store. For several weeks—months, really—I’ve suspected that my husband is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

This past Sunday, two of the ladies in our church spoke about recruiting members for the Stephen ministry in which they had recently been trained as caregivers for members in distress. As I listened, I felt a strong urge to join their group. My background and training could be useful, and at present, since my retirement from nursing, I’m not helping anyone other than my own family and myself. It would fill a void in my life.

Before Paul retired, I was in a painting class at the senior center each Friday; they had been my friends for more than five years, taking the place of the coworkers I’d spent time with before retirement. Earlier today, I had crossed the street to my neighbor’s house to ask whether she would be a reference for me for the Stephen ministry. I wasn’t gone but a few minutes, and as I started back home, I heard Paul calling me. With regret, I dropped the application into the trash.

The first year of Paul’s retirement was truly miserable for both of us.He was no longer the calm, pleasant man he had been all his life. He exploded over small incidents, temper going sky high in just seconds. It was hard for me to do anything right. It seemed the harder I tried, the quicker he blew up. He constantly criticized, sometimes over my choice of a word. He would read into my actions something completely opposite from what I expected or intended. He threatened divorce weekly, became upset and nasty over the children and money matters, and always seemed to hunt for things to argue or fight over. Many times, the only way I could handle it was simply to leave and go shopping or over to Kathy’s house. I suggested counseling and offered to go myself, but this just brought on another tirade of cursing and yelling, throwing things or slamming out of the house. Any mention of vacation or visiting the kids, he vetoed. I couldn’t trust him to drive because he would get angry and drive too fast or recklessly. This continued from March 2006 through the rest of the year.

Our worst day ever came on one of my birthdays, when all the children came home. The house was full, children running and screaming in rowdy games, dogs barking, and Paul lost it. He ordered one of the grandsons to take his dog and get off his property, at which point, my son packed up, ready to leave also. It was awful. Things did calm down, but it took his son to settle him down. I was just furious that this would happen. It took a lot to smooth out the upset feelings on all sides. At the next year’s birthday celebration, the kids gave me a big birthday party at the church fellowship hall. It was a surprise, so he didn’t have time to get upset. Somehow, it worked, and he took it in stride, actually enjoying himself.

In August 2008, Humana sent us a schedule of classes especially for seniors. One of the classes from ten to twelve on a Thursday morning had about eighteen to twenty people attending. Paul went with me for the first one and sat through the entire two hours without speaking, not even replying when the instructor spoke directly to him. At the end of the session, he announced to me that he knew everything that the instructor knew and more, and he was not going back for the following sessions. Frankly, I was relieved. Not only did he embarrass me, but I could not ask questions or join in to any great extent because of how he would interpret it later. I was relieved when he stayed home; the next session was on Alzheimer’s. By the end of that three-hour class, I felt sure I knew what was ahead.

Now what do I do?

From the beginning, the class emphasized early treatment. This was the first serious problem. Seeking advice, I located the area Alzheimer’s office and sought help. How do you start early intervention without the patient knowing what is wrong? My husband had gotten upset with our family doctor and had refused to go back. He hadn’t seen a doctor for over two years until he had a heart problem develop. On August 3, I took him to the ER with rapid pulse and low blood pressure. His diagnosis was supraventricular tachycardia which is also called paroxysmal supraventricular tachycardia, is defined as an abnormally fast heartbeat that could trigger a cardiac arrest if left untreated.

Fortunately, we saw a write-up in our local paper regarding a new physician’s office opening on County Line Road, which was less than four miles from the house. I called and set up an appointment for myself, supposedly to renew my blood pressure meds. At that time, I talked to our new MD and told her what I suspected. On August 18, Paul and I both saw our new doctor.

During the visit, Paul kept going back to his National Guard days when he was nineteen years old and then to his early career days when he worked with Dr. von Braun, the famous German scientist, on the Saturn V rocket. Today, however, he couldn’t tell her what he had done the week before. We left her office with a prescription, but it was an antidepressant, not the medicine that was normally given for Alzheimer’s. Now what?

My husband has refused prescription drugs for many years yet takes vitamin supplements by the handful (literally) daily. He took the medication for two days and then decided it made him too sleepy. End of medication.

Sunday, February 1, 2008, Super Bowl

Thank goodness for football. I believe if I had to listen to talk shows today I would have tried to tell Paul what I felt about his possible diagnosis purely in self-defense.

For the past few weeks—worse since the holidays—he has been spending hours listening to all the talk hosts: Glenn Beck, O’Reilly, Hannity, Greta, Huckabee, on and on, each covering the latest current events, heavily on the new president Barack Obama. It got a little better for me during the holidays because I was out of the house or busy in another room. Before the election, I thought I’d go mad with the constant yammering of the TV. Yesterday, Saturday, he didn’t go swim or get outside even though the temperature was nearly sixty degrees. We got up at ten thirty, and he turned on the TV immediately. These talk shows ran constantly, full volume, until nine o’clock at night—ten and a half hours. I was trying to do income tax preparation and asked repeatedly for him to turn the volume down; each time, he was ugly and nasty. At nine, I was so nervous I literally wanted to scream. Of course, as usual, when I got mad, he got madder. He stomped off to the bedroom and turned that TV on, turning it up so loud I still couldn’t get away from it.

Today, the same thing, more talk shows, refused to go to church, didn’t want to shave. At two in the afternoon, I suggested going to Sam’s (it’s supposed to snow tomorrow), which we did. Home at four, TV on first thing, but the Super Bowl started at five. As I said, thank God for football. Somehow, I’ve got to find a way to reduce the hours of that noise, or I’ll need a tranquilizer myself.

Thursday, September 11

I had an appointment to get my hair done. As I left the house, Paul was getting ready to go swim. I’d been in the beauty shop about twenty minutes when my cell phone rang. It was Paul, in panic mode. Betty, come home quick! I’m sick as a dog.

I told him to dial 911, and I rushed home immediately. He was throwing up—projectile vomiting and screaming with pain in his head. Being an RN, I did a quick assessment, either a stroke or vertigo. We called the ambulance, and it was a fast trip to the ER. After hours in the ER and the lab—MRI, EKG, monitors, and so on—the conclusion was vertigo. He was admitted for overnight because he couldn’t keep anything down—not even a pill with a sip of water.

During this time, Paul was seen by many doctors, nurses, therapists, and so on, and each would question him. He couldn’t give accurate details and almost always managed to turn the conversation to his early years—a repeat of time spent in the National Guard or his days at NASA. He was confused about time and couldn’t give his own medical history. I brought him home from the hospital about four in the afternoon. We pulled into the garage, and before I could get out of the car and around to his side, he was standing up, ready to go into the house. Neither of us was prepared for what happened next; he fell on his hip, as his legs wouldn’t support him. Dear God! If he couldn’t walk, how was I to manage?

I think maybe that fall scared him a bit, as he took all of his meds as ordered. Gradually, he improved. He was prescribed a pill for the dizziness, an antibiotic, his heart meds, and a low-dose tranquilizer. A week later, the dizziness was gone, the antibiotic ended, and he said the other pill made him too sleepy. Now he was back to only the heart med.

For several days after his illness, Paul was his old self, agreeable, pleasant, and, most of the time, easy to get along with. Often, I caught glimpses of the man he used to be, the man I knew he was. My sisters visited from Florida and Virginia, and he treated them well. Thanksgiving with part of the family here went well. As Christmas approached, my activities increased, and he spent most of his time watching TV. Unfortunately, he had stopped going to the wellness center for his water aerobics. I had asked all the children to make a special effort to come home, and he was anxious about having that many people here. Every day, ten or twelve times a day, he would ask who was coming, when, and how long they would stay. Over and over, I’d tell him the plans, only to do it again in an hour. I became more certain by the day that he did indeed have the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

The week before Christmas, he started checking his blood pressure every two to three hours. I became suspicious. Was he feeling the irregular heartbeat, the rapid pulse, pain?

I checked his pill box. Sure enough, he was skipping his heart medicine. When asked about it, he at first denied it, but when I showed him the box, he admitted he was leaving it off, as he didn’t need it because he hadn’t had any problems for a long time, and he was experimenting. After a serious, lengthy discussion, he finally agreed to resume that one medication, but only after I pointed out that if he had another episode and had to go to the ER again with all the doctors on holiday, everyone would be going to the ER. Ultimately, the final argument (read threat) was If you deliberately mess up my holiday, as hard as I’ve worked, and with all the kids coming home … He quickly resumed the meds.

Monday, February 2, 2009

The groundhog didn’t see his shadow; it is a cold, windy, and dreary day. Paul returned to the wellness center for his water workout. I will continue with tax preparation. One of our serious problems now is his fear of running out of money, of being destitute down the road. He gets very upset over such small selfish things. For example, I took a bottle of ketchup to Kathy’s house when we went for supper and didn’t bring it back. Never mind that she had cooked dinner for us. Is this really part of Alzheimer’s, or is it just old age? It mirrors his mother’s attitude during her last years, and, yes, she had Alzheimer’s.

The class I attended gave some pointers on early detection. One of these was word/name recall. It is becoming automatic for us: he can’t recall, he motions to me or says, What is it? and I fill in the blank for him—not just names but common phrases as well. He was talking about our new president and how the media wasn’t allowing the usual hundred days for the … What is it? and I supplied, Honeymoon. He went on talking without skipping a beat. Another sign according to the class literature is a decrease in ability to do math. As I sit at the table trying to pull together our investments, he argues with me over small things, for example, the way I listed the stocks. I used alphabetical order, as does our accountant when he finalizes everything. Paul tells me such and such isn’t necessary, and I explain that we listed it last year and so must follow up this year. He doesn’t remember last year’s details and, even more distressing for me, refuses to look at last year’s records.

If he misplaces an object, he says the kids (meaning the grandkids) have taken it, and then gets angry when I say the kids haven’t been here. He now has an unreasonable anger. I recall how his mother accused his sister of taking things, and his sister was his mom’s caregiver. Now, I wish I had tried to help his sister more.

Going back, the holidays went too quickly; the children were here, all together for the first Christmas in ten years. Paul rode it out, his calm based on my promise that we wouldn’t do it all again, meaning the grocery bill, the hours of cooking, the heavy cleaning, and so on. Next year, I promised, we will get help with the cleaning, ask each family member to bring part of the dinner already prepared, and cut our giving to one package per member. Yesterday, he made the statement, Next Christmas, it will be just you and I—no kids, no big meal, no presents. When I tried to tell him that my plans for next year were different, he got very upset, saying I had promised. But is this really the disease or just his selfishness multiplied by old age? How do I tell the difference? And the thought creeps in, Will he know the children by next Christmas? How many Christmases do we have left as a family?

Now, he drives his small truck up the road two miles, gets into swim trunks and into the water, dresses, drives to McDonald’s, orders a chicken snack wrap for himself and a cup of ice cream for me, and brings it home—all so normal. But how will it be next year? Today, I asked him who was there, and he didn’t remember. Again, I ask myself, Should I talk with him about this? Early treatment, the books say, early treatment. But how do I do it?

Six o’clock, dark, heavy traffic, we drove to the bank with me behind the wheel, as usual; it’s been that way for several months now. At Publix, I waited near the entrance while Paul went in for cream cheese, all very normal. Nothing wrong with him, I thought, watching him come back to the car. The song for Fiddler on the Roof came to mind: Do you love me? and the wife replied something about working all day, raising his children, and so on, but the old man again said in song, Yes, but do you love me?

Yes, I love him; he is very handsome in his Scots-plaid cap and navy wind breaker. There’s not a thing wrong with him, except, like myself, he’s growing old. Why was I worrying?

We ate at the Waffle House and talked and laughed with the cook, just as we’d done many times.

Nothing was wrong; everything was so normal. Then at about ten at night, I asked Paul to turn the talk shows off and go over the tax papers with me to be certain I’d done all I could. We started discussing our stock losses over the past few months, and suddenly, he was yelling, angry and out of control. I asked why he was so angry, and he started the usual line: You are calling me stupid. I know more about stocks than you do! It was like I had challenged him. What he was suggesting was unreasonable. He wanted to take a stack of daily printouts to show the accountant his 401(k) information. My point was that it would take hours for the accountant to compile those statistics, and in the end, he would use the figures from his form 1099. We pay the accountant for time spent. I could see our bill ballooning and without any change in the bottom line. I dread the meeting. I am so afraid Paul will show his often-irrational thinking. I am so afraid he will lose his temper. Our tax appointment is on Friday. Heaven help us!

His angry outburst must have released a surge of adrenaline; it’s nearly eleven, and he returned to the TV talk shows. I am exhausted and long for a few minutes of peace and quiet before going to bed. He goes to bed later and later and then sleeps in his lounge chair for hours. This is such a substantial change for a man who went to bed before eight and went to work at five.

Friday, February 6, 2009

Our tax appointment was for three in the afternoon. Paul took his pile of computer printouts, an unorganized mess of papers, but left them in the car. His first question to our CPA was regarding the loss in the 401(k), and after the CPA told him the daily records would not help, he dropped the subject. He sat, mostly silently, through the session. I handed our CPA another section as soon as he completed one, and in thirty-five minutes, we were finished. Bottom line—we owe $24,500 in taxes, and our CPA bill was another $500.

Two of President Obama’s cabinet appointees were exposed as owing back income taxes to the tune of several thousands and had to give up their appointments. Wonder what would happen if we just forgot to pay our capital gains taxes. I can only guess.

Thankfully, all my concern and anxiety was for nothing. We came back to town and had supper at the Waffle House. Paul went to bed after eleven, peacefully, and I at one in the morning, exhausted. All in all, despite the tax bill, it has been one of our best days for a long, long time.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

We’re not speaking tonight. The phone rang, and I heard Paul giving all kinds of personal information, stuff like 401(k) info, stocks, and so on, and I wondered, Who is he talking to? Had to be either Bobby or Kathy—nobody else is privy to all that info. I got up, went to him, and interrupted, and he continued, so I picked up the other phone and asked who was speaking. Paul hung up and went outside to take the garbage can to the road. He was furious, of course, and came back in hollering at me for interrupting him. I tried to tell him that he was giving out personal information to someone who could use it in any number of ways—ID theft, scams, robbery—all that individual would have had to do was take the phone number to a reverse phone book and they would have address, name etc. He had given them age, education, income etc. They had all they needed. So we spent all evening not speaking, and it’s anyone’s guess