A new Alzheimer’s symptom reveals itself. How well does this family carer deal with it?
The taxi was outside the front gate. I hurried Lena up to it and held the door open for her. She looked down at the small back-seat space inside, and froze.
— No. No. I don’t want to.
— Come on, Lena. It’s just a car. You can do it.
But her body was rigid. It took two minutes of coaxing, and easing and — well, yes, a little pushing — before I could get her bottom onto the seat, and then her head inside the door. Now I just had to somehow get her legs in too, one at a time. Her resistance wasn’t over. As I folded one leg in, the other kicked out.
— Ouch. Ai — it hurts!
The driver said nothing, didn’t turn round. From down here on the floor with Lena’s legs, I couldn’t see, but I knew he was watching the struggle in his mirror. What was he thinking? That I was trying to kidnap this woman or something?
— Sorry. We have a little Alzheimer’s situation.
— Ah.
— Ow!
Finally, she was seated and belted. I closed the door and dashed round to get in on the other side.
— There. Happy now?
— Dum-ti-dum-ti-dum-ti-dum-ti.
She was. And now the driver spoke up.
— I’ll put the child-lock on.
— Yes, good idea. Thank you.
I sat back and began to relax, reflecting on the new symptom. When it happened last time we got into a taxi, I thought it might be a one-off. But no, it looked like this was a new behaviour. Fear of travel? Probably not — Lena was fine on the bus or the tram. Claustrophobia? Well, possibly …
* * *
But Lena never had fears of any kind. I smiled as I recalled a terrifying fairground ride in our early days, Lena several months pregnant, whooping with excitement as the contraption flung us round in our seats then up into the air. Tears of laughter streamed down her face as I clung on for dear life.
And then her bravery that October morning in — was it ‘87? —when she spent six hours driving through the UK’s fiercest storm of the century. We lived in Cambridge then and our two-man computer design business was just getting started. To supplement my paltry income, Lena left me sleeping at five every morning, to deliver glasses frames made by a local company to their client in London. Normally she’d be home by eight, but not that morning.
I woke and the world was in tumult, the wind howling, rain sheeting across the lane outside, branches being ripped from the trees. I turned on the news while I made breakfast:
— … hurricane force winds with 120 mile an hour gusts … roofs ripped off and falling masonry … trees uprooted and blocking roads … a danger to life and limb … the first deaths reported …
I turned it off again. I didn’t want our two kids to hear any more. They were too small to understand what was going on, probably. But where was their Mamma this morning?
In those days before mobile phones, I had no way of contacting her. Would she stop somewhere and call me? What if …? But I put the thought to the back of my mind. This was Lena: of course she was going to be all right. And besides, I knew I had to stay calm for the sake of the kids.
It was late in the morning before she came in, beaming and flushed with the excitement of her adventure.
— Here you are at last. Thank goodness you’re OK. I was so worried.
— I’m sorry. The roads were terrible this morning. They closed the motorway so I had to take a few detours.
— Weren’t you scared?
— Scared? No, why would I be scared? But hungry, yes. What’s for breakfast?
* * *
That was my Lena — 30 years before Alzheimer’s somehow scrambled into a corner of her brain and took up residence there, changing her irrevocably.
Changing both of us. Me too. That calmness under pressure on the morning of the storm, to protect the kids. Where was it now?
You see, it takes time to get Lena ready to go out. Fifteen minutes in the bathroom, then finding something to wear, getting the right leg in the right hole in the right trousers, hunting for the shoes. Under normal circumstances, I’ve trained myself to be patient, enjoying the rewards. When you’re not under pressure and there’s time for a smile and a game and a little song, it can be just as pleasurable and rewarding as the time we used to spend washing and changing our babies and getting them ready.
But when there’s a taxi at the door and the driver has already been waiting for five minutes, there’s no time for fun. Lena’s blissfully unaware these days of her impact on others; I’m completely the opposite. It wasn’t the meter running that mattered, but the sense I was letting the driver down somehow by keeping him waiting.
So when I finally open the front door, and Lena’s wandered off to the back of the house, I’m hollering at her —
— Lena, where are you? Come on! We’ve got to hurry. We’ll be late.
And when she gets tangled up in the front gate, I don’t give her time to figure it out. I grab her by the hand and hustle her to the taxi.
By the time we reach the car, my angst has already transferred itself to her. I’m flustered so she is too. I’m forcing her. And what do we do when someone tries to force us into something? Most of us will dig in our heels and resist, just the same way we used to when we were kids.
So the next time — with new dementia symptoms there’s always a next time — I’ll try to defuse the situation by staying calm, speaking quietly, giving Lena time, not forcing her, not making a scene. Perhaps then my kidnapping days will be over.
Afterthoughts
You might want to think about those words I said to the taxi driver: ‘Sorry. We have a little Alzheimer’s situation.’ Were they helpful or not? Add your thoughts in the Comments box below.
This is one of the stories in The Marathon Years collection, describing the long battle Lena and I had with dementia. If you find that these stories might be helpful to someone you know dealing with dementia, please feel free to share with them.
