Snapshots of Dementia: That Time We Were Glad He Forgets

Posted by Marti on May 13, 2022 in Uncategorized | 1 comment

Throughout our dementia journey, good times and challenging times have intertwined. God’s sovereign hand means even the darkest of circumstances can dawn bright enough to be a blessing. We also know that even the happy times carry a profound element of grief. 

This past winter, an unusual chain of events transpired that reminded me that even those times of forgetfulness and confusion play a part in the way God “causes all things to work together for good to those who love him and are called according to his purpose” (Rom. 8:28, NASB). We experienced this in the fall of last year, and it began with a physical fall—one that only happened because of Tom’s dementia. 

He and I had done some Saturday shopping at a local grocery store. I’d had reverse shoulder replacement surgery only weeks before and still had one arm in a sling. With my one good arm, I was loading the groceries into the back of our car, Tom by my side.  

As we finished, our grocery cart rolled down the store’s sloped parking lot, and a woman driving toward us honked her horn. I turned around, but it was already too late. Tom was running to retrieve the cart, both hands in the air, swinging his body from side to side. 

Despite his panic, there was no emergency; the cart wasn’t rolling fast, and we could have retrieved it. The car, a large SUV, wouldn’t be damaged by its impact.  

But a real emergency loomed. In my head, Tom had already fallen and I was calling 911.  

And then it happened. He fell flat-out, right in front of the oncoming car (mercifully stopped at this point). Within seconds, I was by his side. 

“Baby! Are you OK?” I said as he lay there, stunned. 

“I think I am,” he said as I helped him up. I told the driver that he was fine, and she drove on around us, no doubt wondering why he had run as he did to retrieve the cart. 

I didn’t wonder. I already knew that dementia had stolen Tom’s “safety” mode. When his fight-or-flight response kicks in, it’s strong and immediate.  

But I also knew he might not be fine. But since he hadn’t lost consciousness and had no obvious injuries, I took him home. 

By Monday, I called our primary care physician because his pain had increased, and I feared he had broken a rib. It was now Thanksgiving week, and she had no appointments, so her office sent us to an Urgent Care. 

An x-ray showed two broken ribs—and a large mass in his left lung with extending fingers to the lymph nodes. 

Once CT scan and two appointments (one with our own doctor and one with a pulmonologist) later, we were facing the strong possibility that Tom had lung cancer. I let our children know what the doctors had said and waited for the next appointment: a bronchoscopy and biopsy. The pulmonologist would sedate him lightly and explore his lungs with a lighted scope, taking biopsies so we would know exactly what was wrong. 

So why were we glad Tom didn’t remember and, probably, didn’t understand? Because throughout this ordeal, for only a few hours did he understand he might have cancer. 

Sometimes, he has moments of clarity where it’s almost as if his old self is back. When we spoke with our PCP after the CT scan, he had a few hours of that clarity. 

While in her office, even when she said the mass looked “horrible,” Tom didn’t seem upset. But we went to a church supper immediately after that, by the end of the meal, he was sobbing. I could barely get him into the car and home because he was crying so hard. I prayed with him, which calmed him down some, but we couldn’t go back to the church for choir practice, and he went to bed only a short time later. 

Once again, my heart broke. Knowing he might have cancer was not good news. Having him confused, upset, and fearful was worse. 

But his angst lasted only a few hours. During the pulmonology exam and even the hospital procedure, he kept asking me, “What are they doing?” or “Tell me, why are we here?”  

“They’re checking some things,” I said. I didn’t think he needed to learn experience a dementia version of Groundhog Day—learning about the potential cancer again, for the first time. 

This part of our story has a happy ending: Only two days before Christmas, we learned he didn’t have cancer after all. The mass turned out to be a lump of mucus, which his brain and body no longer process well. The bloodwork and multiple biopsies revealed no trace of cancer, but he does take an additional medication and sees the pulmonologist every three months. 

Of course, his lack of concern about the problem meant he didn’t rejoice in its resolution. Even when he’s heard me tell the story, he’s never shown any sort of reaction.  

Although he has the right to know about his health, I intend to shield him from any future bad news. I see no point in causing him the exaggerated distress that dementia brings. 

Even if it only lasts a short time.   

I continue to see God’s good work even in this challenging phase of our journey. If you or someone you love is dealing with dementia, what good things have come your way? Feel free to share them on social media or in the comments below. Our story matters, and so does yours.