Forgetful Jones (Facebook/Sesame Street) “A merry heart does good, like medicine, But a broken spirit dries up the bones” (Prov. 17:22, NKJV). We all have different ideas about dementia; I know I did before we began this journey. And truly, even as transparent as I try to be on my blog, I haven’t yet caught up to present-day except for some occasional glimpses. So this is that! Anyone who knows Tom, in past or present, knows about his trademark sense of humor. Although he has the typical anosognosia (“without knowledge of disease”) of many people with dementia and doesn’t realize the extent of his deficits, he does now know he has frontotemporal degeneration (FTD), and he does know his thinking has changed. He still jokes, although he’s often using lines he’s said for many years. But sometimes his comebacks surprise me, especially since his thinking seems to have slowed down a great deal in the past few months. Last spring, while we still lived in Florida, I made a casual joke about something he would “probably forget.” He looked at me very seriously and said, “I think this is something that is OK for me to joke about, but not OK for you.” Though this may seem like a double standard, I understand exactly what he meant. Many of us women are sensitive about our weight. It might be fine for us to joke about our own chubby tummy or thigh rolls, but we don’t prefer that anyone else do so. And it’s the same with dementia. I’ve been careful ever since to make sure Tom initiates the jokes and/or I only repeat things we’ve said multiple times. As a person created in the image of God, he is and will always be worthy of both respect and love. That being said, Tom has retained his sense of humor. I think I mentioned our joke about his “good ideas” once before. Somehow it has stayed with him that his ideas aren’t the best (to read more about this, see this post.) And so occasionally he will say to me, “I have a great idea!” knowing it may not be, or describe something silly that happens (like this week, when he failed to put the carafe under the coffeemaker and sent coffee all over the counter, then put the top back on incorrectly so that even more coffee spilled) as a “great idea.” I am thankful that having the privilege to work from home has prevented most of the other sorts of “great ideas” from happening. Something else he jokes about is taking his medicine. His short-term memory has become so very short that almost every day, I remind him...

Photo by Khorena Sanders on Unsplash Author’s Note: This post is part two of a two-part series. Check out part one at this link, then pick up the story below. For one of the first times ever, I posted a brief summary of my concern on the Facebook support group I had recently joined for spouses or partners of those with frontotemporal degeneration (FTD). By this time, my kids and I had looked at the symptoms of FTD, behavioral type, and been amazed. After months and years of trying to find out what was wrong, here was a disease that looked like a perfect match. Why had no one mentioned this before? We’d have to wait for more testing, but it certainly looked like this was a possibility. I may write more about this later, but this group was rapidly becoming an information source, sounding board and source of encouragement for me. And this case, it was a lifeline. I shared the various driving-related incidents that had occurred and that we still didn’t have a real diagnosis or definitive answer. But to a person, everyone who responded (and there were more than 40 who did) to my question said: Do it now. Don’t delay. Keep him from driving no matter what. I read stories of accidents, of liabilities, of spouses who were still driving and had major problems. I read of doctors who refused to say the FTD patient needed to give up their license, only to have an accident occur. But mostly, I read what I’d already read on this site: Our story. And I knew it was time. I shared all this information (what had happened with their dad and driving, what our former pastor had said, what the other spouses had said) in brief with the next set of reinforcements I called in: Our children. I am sure I sounded at least somewhat irrational (after all, by this point, I probably had sleep deprivation.) But I could not in good conscience keep letting Tom out on the road. Or could I? I knew I needed the wise counsel of those who also loved him and wanted his best. I didn’t want to mess this up. I don’t actually remember which of our children I contacted, but I do know they all agreed to “talk amongst themselves.” The conclusion? No, Dad should not drive. Yes, they should help me tell him. Our two oldest daughters suggested they initiate a Skype call with Tom and me (this was before Zoom had reached its present-day popularity). “After all,” said one, not quite tongue-in-cheek. “He’ll know we must be serious if the two of us agree.” We made the call....

Photo by Marc-Olivier Jodoin on Unsplash Before we could return to neurologist No. 3 for the second time, a crisis occurred that forced our family into a huge decision. At this point, Tom was still driving. In fact, he was driving for a ride-share company. Sounds crazy for someone who might have dementia, right? Well, yes. And no. Think about it. He had lost three jobs in quick succession. Where could he find work? He loved to drive. And although he struggled with directions now, God and GPS cover a multitude of sins. Add that to the fact that no doctor had diagnosed any specific problem beyond depression, and you’ll see why (although I did have concerns) Tom remained on the road. I discussed Tom’s driving with my adult children (for a while, I had noticed him following more closely than he should) and they agreed that removing driving privileges would be difficult. When necessary, maybe a doctor could make that decision, but not right now. That was our plan. So yes, I’ll go ahead and say it: We were wrong. And I apologize to anyone I may have unknowingly scared or hurt because we were not more proactive. And I pray—and fear—for all of those who may be endangered by those still in the diagnosis or pre-diagnosis process with a disease like Tom’s. I’m convinced; there are many still on the road who should not be. Here’s what happened. Tom was driving for the rideshare company and quite happy to do so. I wasn’t as happy, because he was staying out for longer and longer periods of time. He had a certain daily financial goal, and he would stay out until he reached it. No. Matter. What. Of course, I didn’t know then about the obsessions his type of dementia (frontotemporal degeneration, or FTD) causes (read more about that in this post.) His desire to work and the low pay rate played right into this. The more he drove, the more he wanted to drive. And although I didn’t realize it at the time, I now know he didn’t have the logic or understanding to think, I’m tired. I should stop driving. I need to go home. For him, it truly was all about the money. He was so happy to contribute to our family finances again that he would drive. And drive. And sleep at the side of the road. And drive. As days and weeks passed, I became more and more concerned about his hours. I had more than one serious talk with him where he would promise to “only” work eight hours. Of course, he never kept those promises. At the time, I thought he...

Photo by Stefano Pollio on Unsplash If your snapshots are anything like mine, they fill a shoebox (OK, mine fill an entire trunk) and most are in random order. I have long-ago dreams of putting them in beautiful, chronological albums (I’m sure God has a special place in heaven for those who have achieved this wondrous feat), but so far, it hasn’t happened. I don’t think it will happen with these snapshots either. So, although I’ve written somewhat chronologically, you may have noticed I’ve also skipped back, forth and around as I’ve focused my lens on different parts of our journey and of Tom’s disease. And I imagine that, even if you’ve never been exposed to dementia before, you’ve seen that this disease is exactly like that. Messy. Disorganized. Uncomfortable. I’ll move us forward a bit on our timeline to our visits with a second neurologist. We’re all the way up to early 2019 now, and many things have changed for Tom. Just the year before, his first neurologist told us (for the second time) that things were basically fine, that he just had some short-term memory loss and (for the first and only time) that he was “better than the 80-year-old Alzheimer’s patients I see.” A neuropsychologist had also done extensive testing (which I eventually found out our insurance did not cover, although no one told me that at the time; I mention this so anyone reading will check first and not have to shell out the nearly $1800 I did almost a year later). This doctor concluded that Tom was very intelligent, probably had adult ADHD (a diagnosis he had already received) and was dealing with shame as the result of some of his extremely poor and uncharacteristic behavioral choices over the past few years. No one told us about frontotemporal degeneration (FTD), behavioral type. No one mentioned that dementia could not only cause memory loss and confused thinking but that it could also cause personality changes of the extreme type we saw in Tom. No one mentioned that perhaps he didn’t have a moral problem but a mental one. That’s why I have such a deep commitment to tell our story. I did suspect a problem; I just didn’t realize so much of what I was seeing in my husband was tied to what we now know to be FTD. But I digress. Finally, we visited a second neurologist. This one came recommended from more than one friend. I was confident that this time, we would get some answers. So much had changed in Tom’s life that I felt sure the doctor would see the problems right away. We had (well, I had, because Tom could...

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash You don’t understand How to play a game Or pay a bill Or pull a name From your contacts list, which you cannot find For a villain lurks Inside your mind. You always said We’d be the two Who’d stay in love Our whole lives through And indeed we have—yet today, somehow You’re a little boy I’m the parent now. My shattered heart Breaks more each day As you, my darling, Fade away. Like a photograph in too-bright sun You sit tired, confused The thief has won. But no! The Father Showers grace. Takes every tear And, in its place, Brings relief and comfort, sure release From the chains that bind Grants perfect peace. My deep desire To serve my King I wrap in this, My offering. To bless in ways, be they large or small, When no one’s around To see at all. To give to you As I’ve received, Bring joy to you When I am grieved. To put you first In every way. To grant each wish, Take time to play. Speak words of love, Do each hard task. Still hold your hand When you cannot ask. One day we’ll end This earth-soaked race One day we’ll see With unveiled face One day your horn Again will sound One day we’ll kneel On holy ground. Until then, dear, My joy will be To serve and love you Faithfully. As I wrote this, I was thinking of course of my husband, Tom, but I was also remembering my dad and my mother’s loving care for him through his many years as a Type 2 diabetic and then as a cancer patient. These words are for Tom, but they’re also in honor of Mom and all those who offer loving care for others. Your story matters because you do. Feel free to share in the comments...