Dignifying Dementia by Elizabeth Tierney Page B

diagnosed with a brain tumor. “I despise her,” I said. “Now look what has happened to her husband.” I thought I had wished evil on her. Jim turned to me and shook his head sadly, “Sweetie, don’t flatter yourself! There was a long line ahead of you.” Now here I was thinking I could make a difference for Jim – ‘flattering myself’ again.
    Once ensconced in Lenox, we went to Tanglewood. At the rehearsals or concerts, Jim sat in his seat with his arms folded, hat pulled down over his face and acknowledged no one. I bought tickets for box seats for some concerts because I wanted Jim to have as much ‘special’ as we could afford. It was the same reasoning that had prompted me to make a reservation at The Hotel Hershey rather than a Motel 8 or 10 on the trip south. I wanted the best for him. I wanted a chocolate on his pillow.

    The truth was we still had no definitive information. Should we see another physician for another opinion? Would someone else have some insight? I thought we should, so we were referred to an osteopath. I explained to him that we had seen several doctors, and I told him about the “brain shrinkage,” the “90% sure Alzheimer’s,” and the “memory lapses.” Once again, Jim was asked to perform; I recognized some questions from the previous tests. If he wasn’t doing any better on the tests, I was. “Spell ‘world’ backwards.” Jim missed it. But this physician did something different. He put his hands on Jim’s arms and wrists and moved them up and down. At the end of his examination, he said, “You don’t have Alzheimer’s. You have Parkinson’s! And it is too early in the illness to use any sort of medication.”
    â€œHowever, for the depression,” he added, “I recommend that you see comedies instead of tragedies.” So now we had ‘memory lapses,’ Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s, and my thinking about writing a Dummies’ book or preparing Cliff Notes on how to pass mini-mental status tests.
    Jim didn’t react to the diagnosis. I did. Believe it or not, I was elated when I heard Parkinson’s. When we got in the car after leaving the osteopath’s office, I was giddy. “Sweetie, what great news!” My heart soared. Jim seemed unmoved. I reassured him, “Lots of people have Parkinson’s.” I rattled off: Hitler, Mohammed Ali, Janet Reno, and Michael J. Fox. “Sure the disease is a bloody nuisance, but it won’t kill you.” I wasn’t in denial. Once again, I didn’t understand the implications, and I hadn’t asked what they were.

    A few days later, I woke up with a sharp pain in my side. No! I guessed what was wrong. Before heading north for the summer, my gynecologist had admonished me, “Your fibroid is so big, I am concerned that it is going to damage your kidney. You should have a hysterectomy.” I had said, “Jim’s not well. I can’t deal with this now. How about when we get back in the fall?” So I had a good idea what was causing the pain. Increasingly leery of physicians, I saw a local gynecologist who recommended surgery. He said, “The fibroid isn’t the biggest I’ve ever seen.” Once again I was dismayed by a physician’s communication skills. Was fibroid size a competition? In any event, the fibroid was pushing on my kidney; I needed a hysterectomy. Apparently it was surgery or kidney damage.
    Once again I called Belinda, who found a physician in Cambridge. We went. He examined me. We talked. I argued against having the surgery; he parried my arguments. I was worried because I was concerned about Jim, and I knew I would be unable to drive or lift anything; I also was disappointed about giving up my part-time job. Meanwhile, I was aware that Jim was changing.
    Regardless, we scheduled the surgery. Jim actually said to me, “Get it over