Truth and Dementia

When You’re Anxious, Put the Shovel Down

This week, on the first night of cold weather, my husband sat across from the pellet stove we use for heat in winter. The stove roared and enveloped the room in a toasty warmth. I sat beside him, savoring the closeness of the evening. Suddenly he sat up straighter, looking alarmed. “Where’s the shovel?”

I blinked. “What shovel?”

He seemed irritated. “The one we use to put the pellets in the stove.” He used his hands to approximate the size of said shovel, apparently like a hand trowel.

I pointed to the metal hod bucket, next to the stove, sitting chock-full of wood pellets. “See? The bucket has one side like a scoop. We’ve always poured them straight out of the bucket.”

He shook his head and glared. “No. We always use that shovel.” He crossed his arms.

I opened my mouth and shut it again.

I figured he meant our set of decorative wrought-iron fireplace tools—a poker and a long-handled spade meant to scoop ashes. The set no longer sat there on the hearth. I assured him that I’d locate the damn shovel and we let the matter drop.

More and more often since his stroke and subsequent serious car crash, he exhibits signs of dementia.

I’ve been on edge.

Word of the week: Anxious.  Anxious as frick. Between my husband Brad’s health and the election, I’m trying to stay calm. Be positive. Sing “Que Sera, Sera” to myself and smile as needed. But honestly, I’m a wreck.

Between my husband’s cognitive decline and the upcoming election, I’m crazier than usual. Trying to lower the temp on my flamin’ sanity, I remind myself that all this is temporary. But it’s been like hanging a hot dog from a nearby tree limb in hopes the yellowjackets will let you eat in peace. Sounds good in theory, but those damn jackets get smarter every year.

Thus, the recent stories of my life echo in my ears: know the symptoms of dementia; it’s too close to call.

So what’s the cure for this anxious apprehension?

No doubt some smarty pants will say, “Don’t forget that God says, ‘Fear not,’ approximately a bazillion times.” Oh wait, that was me. Yet too many times the gap between what my mind knows and what my heart feels are Grand Canyons apart. Fear resurfaces like crabgrass and a giant blob of panic seeps under the door.

And not without reason. My dear husband often gets up in the night thinking he’s late for dialysis. He sleeps a lot and watches more TV than he used to. If I’m not vigilant, he orders supplements and other miracle cures from dark corners of the internet, such as the one hundred dollars’ worth of olive oil capsules guaranteed to do, uh, something wonderful.

Call me a natural skeptic, but I’d buy hot dogs from a gang of yellowjackets before I’d throw down a Benjamin for olive oil, no matter how wonderful.

Still, wonder can be found.

Despite the chilling info that women develop dementia twice as often as men, none of us can afford to abandon the awe and wonder of each moment. The beauty of the last summer flowers, valiantly turning their faces to the sun. The smell of the first woodburning stoves on a crisp morning. The joyful surprise of seeing Jesus in a stranger’s smile. Honeybees doing their nectar thing. Yellowjackets, hornets and wasps probably have a purpose but I’m not donating to that cause.

I poke fun, but these changes in my husband scare the crapola out of me. I’m watching both my partner and a famous candidate slowly meltdown. One confuses day with night and the other mixes up facts and fiction. It’s frightening—a bit like watching a boat loaded with everything you hold dear, unmoored and drifting away. You want to swim after it, but you’ve forgotten how.

Lately, my husband has trouble remembering how to do things that were once easy for him. He’ll stare at a computer screen for what feels like hours, and still be confused. He has so many passwords that he forgets how to sign in to his own email. He complains that his brand-new eyeglasses aren’t right. But he still knows my name, and still says how much he loves me.

And that gives me hope.

I learned so much in caring for my mother during her final years. How not to argue when she insisted that she was right. How to take another few minutes with her even though I was in a rush.  I learned that irritability was just another name for the fear that often seized her. Fear of being alone. Fear of forgetting everything. Fear of death.

And more than anything, I learned to treat my loved ones with failing minds the way I’d want them to treat me. With kindness, patience and love. So that when and if my mind grows dim and cold, I won’t be so anxious, I won’t need to fear.

Of course it’s beyond hard to keep wonder on the radar. That’s why the Present must constantly nudge us to come back to now. If I’m paying attention, I’ll be able to lure those yellowjackets away from the feast of life that sits before me. And I hope to be able to keep those flying menaces off my husband’s plate too.

Look around. Wonder and God’s presence are everywhere.

I weep with anyone whose loved one’s lights are fading due to any kind of dementia. I sigh along with you if your person mistakes you for a hat. The cruelty of dementia etches itself deep upon too many families. Yet trading your anxiety for the awe and wonder of the now may help you through this season. At least one source of nail-biting should be decided in November. Who knows, maybe the long arc really will bend toward justice and dementia won’t win the day.

Sounds corny, but if I’m thankful for a clear mind today, I can be kinder and loving the next time cognitive decline makes my husband mistake the fireplace shovel for a pellet loader. At least he doesn’t think I’m a hat¹.

1. A sly yet ridiculous reference to neurologist Oliver Sacks’ book, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat.