A recent photo of Tom in his recliner, one of his birthday gifts this year. Although I shared a guest post last week, most of the snapshots of dementia so far come from me. Today, I wanted you to hear from someone else—someone who’s been present throughout our dementia journey. That person is my husband of almost 39 years, who has been living with dementia for at least the past five years and probably much longer.   As Tom’s symptoms progress, he has increasing trouble focusing on more than the simplest information. Always a creative who loved to share ideas and information, he used to say he didn’t think outside the box—he couldn’t even find it. Today, his cognitive box is small—and it shrinks a little more every day.  I conducted the following “inside edition” interview one evening this week—not the best time for him because of the sundowning I mention in this post. Despite my editorial distaste for ellipses, I’ve used them here to indicate pauses—sometimes long ones. I consider this a true snapshot of dementia: Tom’s perspective in his own words, even when his answer doesn’t match my question.  MP: So if you were going to tell someone what it’s like to have a young-onset dementia like this, what would you say?   TP: It is just deceptive. One point, you can be clear-headed. . . and putting footstep after footstep, and then other times, you. . . it’s. . . You know that I. . . I try to. . . try to keep a good. . . attitude and. . . it’s frustrating to me that like, when I have sundowner’s, because it just. . . it’s just like Let’s Make a Deal. You open it and suddenly you’re just there. You can’t change your emotions. . . Your continued encouragement and taking care of me and setting up stuff for me. . . it’s so encouraging. Sometimes you have pulled me off the cliff … and I feel encouraged and loved and cared for. . . . I never in any of my dreams ever thought that this is where I would be now (tears).      MP: What do you think is the hardest thing for you about having this disease?  TP: One thing would be. . . there are times when I can walk, and. . . I try. . . I try to keep reading because I don’t want to be locked in on word games and my golf game [both games he plays on his iPad]. . . . There’s not very many times that it happens, but sometimes you are wanting to do something or wanting to go someplace. . . and I’m trying...

Photo by Xianyu hao, Unsplash I am a person of tears. I cry when I’m sad. I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I worship. I cry—you get the picture. My children remember me not as the mom who screamed when they were disobedient but as the mom who (you guessed it) cried. I’ve written before about these tears here and how, in Tom’s (more and more rare) moments of awareness of his condition, sometimes, we cry.  As far as I can tell, I feel things more deeply than many people. I believe this quality makes me a better intercessor and a better writer, but it also means that, as the wife of a man living with dementia, I cry.  Why do I cry? Not because of the pain of the past, the years when doctors kept saying Tom was fine but his behavior showed us he wasn’t.   Not because of the responsibility. Yes, it still feels like a weight—being in charge of everything about our lives together, from small to big decisions, tasks, schedules, and everything in between—but God has given me what I need, and I’m consistently amazed at His provision.  Not because of the diagnosis. Knowing Tom has what I consider a terrible disease makes me sad, but we waited so long to receive medical affirmation of our suspicions that when it came, I felt more relief than sadness.  Not because of lost jobs. I did cry—a lot—when Tom had to leave his final worship pastor position. We loved our church and the people there. But Tom was in such a bad place emotionally/spiritually/and of course cognitively at that time that I knew something had to shift. So although the tears came, I also realized it was time, probably past time, for him to go.  So why do I cry?  Because of our children. Every mother will tell you she’d rather hurt a thousand times herself than see her child hurt once. All our children are grown now, but their father’s disease still wounds them. We all hate the way dementia is stealing him from us. And I know it gives them additional concerns for the future, all of which I wish I could remove but none of which I can.  Because of our grandson. As I wrote about here, Lincoln and his love for Grandpa have taught me much about genuine love. Lincoln doesn’t mind that Grandpa gets mixed up easily, makes awkward comments, or doesn’t remember what someone told him only a few minutes earlier. But knowing that this little boy will continue to grow, change, and progress while Grandpa grows, changes, and regresses? That makes my heart hurt and my tears flow....

Photo by TheDigitalArtist on Pixabay That brief phrase might be my best answer to the question I hear most often about my husband: How’s he doing? I doubt those who ask have time or desire to hear the long version of my response. So “it’s complicated” works well. Before I had the privilege of carrying a child, I thought pregnancy meant you gained weight, your abdomen grew larger, and in nine months, you had a baby. I had no idea that so many areas of my body, from hair to fingernails to feet, would change as I journeyed through those months. That’s how dementia is. Before it struck our family, I pictured it as a primarily a memory problem. For Tom (but not for all people living with dementia) memory loss plays a big part, but dementia affects so much more than memory. The best way I can think of to explain “it’s complicated” is to compare how he was two years ago (just after we moved to our home in South Carolina) to now in several key areas. 2020 SPEECH: Has become increasingly halting. VISION: Poor depth perception. MEMORY: Remembers many people but not dates and events; needs daily reminders to take medication. DIET: Normal, some food and drink obsessions. Has lost his sense of smell, which has begun to affect his sense of taste; likes and dislikes are changing. HOUSEHOLD TASKS: Little initiative to help on his own but vacuums, mops with reminders, and does occasional other chores. FINANCES: Can no longer manage bank accounts or personal finances; still has a debit card and one credit card that I monitor. EMPLOYMENT: Retired after losing three successive jobs in late 2018/early 2019, all dementia-related but has no benefits. DRIVING: Our family asked him to give up driving in April 2019 after minor accidents plus observation of his driving; still wants to transfer his Florida driver’s license to South Carolina “just in case.” PERSONAL CARE: Normal except that he stopped going to the dentist a few years ago and needs treatment. BALANCE: Diagnosed with a balance problem in late 2019 and had a few weeks of physical therapy. SWALLOWING: No known issues; coughs (a lot) and chokes (sometimes). SLEEP: Normal; was acting out his dreams and had restless nights until one neurologist prescribed an antidepressant. INTERESTS: Decreasing; still engages with family with encouragement, enjoys church, music, movies, TV, reading, golf, and has obsession with an online golf game. Will often choose this game over engaging with family. A former professional trumpet player, he has not practiced consistently since May 2017. 2022 SPEECH: Much slower with frequent pauses, often gives up. VISION: Narrowing field, misses many objects. MEMORY: Remembers people...

Unsplash/K. Mitch Hodge I heard Tom before I saw him. As he came through the front door, he sobbed. Working to sort, discard and pack our belongings in advance of putting our Florida home on the market, I’d had a few moments to myself while Tom went with one of our daughters to the county dump. He had driven one car and she, another. (Only a few weeks later, we had to take away his keys.) “Baby! What’s the matter?” I called out as I hurried to meet him. His shoulder shook and the tears poured down his face. “I just hate it when I get things mixed up,” he said. “I bet [our daughter] is so mad at me.” He’d forgotten where the dump was, a lapse that cost them extra time. And no, our daughter wasn’t upset, but it took him several moments to calm down. If you asked Tom about his illness today, he would say he has early-onset dementia, although he might not be able to tell you its name. But back then, we still had no diagnosis, and most of the time, he exhibited the typical FTD anosognosia or lack of awareness of his cognitive lapses and their effects. As our life continued to spiral in scary directions, this proved at best frustrating and at worst maddening. That day, I realized something: I prefer it when he remains unaware. If he doesn’t know he’s forgotten, doesn’t realize he’s caused some sort of problem, doesn’t understand it’s not the website’s fault or the phone’s fault or the television’s fault but his own, he doesn’t understand his decline. And he doesn’t cry. That wasn’t the first day Tom cried, but it was the last for a while. He didn’t cry when, that same week, he made an inappropriate (not sexual) comment to a female friend. He didn’t cry when I put the house on the market. He didn’t cry when, night after night, I would come home from a long day at work, cook dinner, pack or do freelance work while he played on his phone, watched television or slept. He didn’t cry when our children traveled hundreds, even thousands of miles to help us move—or when they left (two for what we thought at the time would be years overseas). The disease has affected the part of his brain that controls emotional reactions, and the damage is uneven. Sometimes his responses are exaggerated, and at other times, blunted. With his and other dementias, what you see happening is not always what you get by way of response. Sometimes, he still cries. We have recently begun attending in-person worship despite his vulnerability to COVID-19 because our...