Dignifying Dementia by Elizabeth Tierney Page A

world and wrote on the back of one of his business cards, “Your cancer is gone,” and signed his name. Jim’s eyes welled with tears, but he still didn’t believe he was cured. The doctor took out a mini-recorder and taped what he had written on the card. Jim put the card in his wallet; the tape went into his top dresser drawer.

    During one of our visits, I had mentioned to the urologist my disappointment with the neurologist who had said, “Brain shrinkage.” Surely we could find someone with a more definitive diagnosis. So, in the hopes of getting more definitive answers, we arranged to see neurologist number two.
    This time, instead of being asked to name presidents, Jim was asked to name as many animals as he could in 60 seconds. Jim named two and sat silent for another 10 or 15 seconds. Then the doctor said, “You have 40 seconds left”; at which point, Jim stood up, reached for my hand and said, “Thank you. We are leaving.”
    Jim’s abrupt desire to leave suggested that he was humiliated or embarrassed by the tests. How would we ever get any information? Our lives were filling with physicians, but we seemed no closer to answers.

    When the treatment for the prostate cancer was completed, we headed north again. The 800-mile trip was uneventful.
    In retrospect, I was the one with the mental deficiency, not Jim. While I could see that life needed to be less stressful for him, it never occurred to me to give up our snowbird lifestyle, that we needed one place, not two.
    I did think about our summers, though, and about being closer to the Berkshires, which would be more peaceful for him than the hustle and bustle of New York City.
    Having a place in the country, in a part of the world he loved, where he could still enjoy art, music and theatre would be less taxing. There he could see trees and hillsides and walk on a sidewalk at his own pace. I wasn’t in denial. His cancer was in check. Why not the cognitive impairment?
    While the location was pastoral, I didn’t comprehend that his mind and body were being destroyed and how that deterioration would manifest itself. We had been given different labels and drugs to try – mostly for depression – but we had no guidance. I was used to doctors making recommendations the way the urologist had. Here’s the problem, here’s the treatment: rest in bed, take an aspirin, drink fluids, or take this antibiotic for 10 days. What did ‘brain shrinkage’ mean? What did ‘lapses in memory’ mean? What could we do about it? Watch the way he handles the checkbook? Try an antidepressant?
    When I suggested moving to the Berkshires, Jim agreed grudgingly.
    To make a long story short, in 1999 we bought a condo in Lenox and sold our pied-à-terre simultaneously. The market was good then, as was the timing. As I packed, Jim simply sat and watched. In the past, he had scolded me if I lifted something heavy or bulky and would promptly take it out of my hand. The man who packed us in two days to leave Ireland looked bewildered. Everything had fallen into place, except the illness.
    Once we moved, I found a part-time job with the folks I had met when I was working with the conference group in the city. I felt a wave of sadness giving up New York City, but we had a gentler world for Jim. I guess I thought Jim would be mildly impaired forever, and my mission was to help him feel less stressed and more secure. I ignored my inner voice that said, “Hey, what about you?” Arrogantly, I thought that if I took care of him, he would be OK. He was just impaired, and, “If you’re OK, I’m OK.” How naïve!
    Not for the first time had I been that arrogant. I had a boss once with a steel-trap mind and a sharp tongue, who used to make us all quake in our shoes. A colleague had said, “She turns us all into gruel.” At the time, I told Jim how guilty I felt that my boss’s husband had been