shutting down of my system that will probably get me to hell and back many times before the Lord takes me. I have thought about cheating him and taking the easy way out. In fact, I bought a book called Final Exit , about taking your life, after Dr. Horowitz first told me I might have Alzheimer’s. I hid it underneath some old tax statements in the den. I had forgotten exactly where I’d put it, but I came across it while I was tiding up today. For some reason, it comes tightly wrapped in plastic. I unwrapped it but only got as far as reading the back cover. It says right there on the back that it offers people with a terminal illness a choice on how and when to end their suffering.
Here’s the conundrum. Amazing! A fifty-cent word that I not only remembered but, I think, used in the right place. I may be going crazy, but I am not going stupid! Anyway, the doctors have told me, and I don’t mean one or two, but more, including Dr. Tremblay and some neuro guy and a couple of others. They have told me I probably have Alzheimer’s, but they say they can’t be 100 percent sure until after I die and they open my head to see if I have that plaque stuff on my brain. They’re pretty sure, more than pretty sure, but not 100 percent sure.
My best guess is that I am heading pretty fast toward my demise. I plan to start reading the book before it just looks like a bunch of jumbled letters with no meaning. In fact, I already seem to mix up some of the letters in words, so I’d better do it soon.
The doctors have me on so many pills, I can hardly see the kitchen counter. Ginkgo, Aricept, and something called Melamine or Memantine or something. You would think I would know the right name, given I take so many of them. They’re all supposed to slow down my memory loss, or at least the symptoms. So far, they tell me it seems to be working like it should, but then again, how would I know what is normal? There is nothing normal in this hell I’m in.
Yesterday, we went to Dr. Tremblay’s office. He wanted me to be part of a test group, one where they give some of us the real thing and the others what he called a … well, anyway, it was the fake one.
Monique said she wanted the doctor to give me the real thing. The doctor said he couldn’t guarantee it, but that I had a 50 percent chance. The drug was like an experiment or something, and the only way I could possibly get it was to be part of the group. Monique went ballistic. I have never seen her so angry. She told the doctor in a loud voice that I was a human being, not a guinea pig. Sometimes I think Monique loves me.
Monique
How Sad for Him, How Sad for Me
S aul was sitting in front of the television, a blank look on his face. He seemed so sad, so empty. And he has every right to be that way. What does he have to look forward to? What quality of life? What happiness? It takes him forever to get dressed. His taste buds are diminishing. The doctor said he’s all but lost his sense of smell. Mon Dieu , that’s half the enjoyment of eating. And I always seem to be cutting up his food when we go out. I know he can sort of do it most of the time, but I am tired of being embarrassed in public. Mind you, having people watch me cut his meat isn’t exactly a pleasure, either.
He certainly can’t enjoy wearing clothes like he used to. He doesn’t seem to be able to focus on a book anymore, and his patience when it comes to playing cards or games is almost nonexistent. As far as I’m concerned, he has no quality of life. And he is really getting depressed. I do everything I can to distract him from all the desolation he must be going through, but it’s a losing battle.
Maybe he’d be better off dead, and maybe I’d be better off, too.
I know you are probably saying to yourself, What a shrew she is! Her poor husband is ill, dying a slow, wretched death, and she’s there pitying herself. That may be how it appears, but it’s not the case. I wish people could understand
Here’s the conundrum. Amazing! A fifty-cent word that I not only remembered but, I think, used in the right place. I may be going crazy, but I am not going stupid! Anyway, the doctors have told me, and I don’t mean one or two, but more, including Dr. Tremblay and some neuro guy and a couple of others. They have told me I probably have Alzheimer’s, but they say they can’t be 100 percent sure until after I die and they open my head to see if I have that plaque stuff on my brain. They’re pretty sure, more than pretty sure, but not 100 percent sure.
My best guess is that I am heading pretty fast toward my demise. I plan to start reading the book before it just looks like a bunch of jumbled letters with no meaning. In fact, I already seem to mix up some of the letters in words, so I’d better do it soon.
The doctors have me on so many pills, I can hardly see the kitchen counter. Ginkgo, Aricept, and something called Melamine or Memantine or something. You would think I would know the right name, given I take so many of them. They’re all supposed to slow down my memory loss, or at least the symptoms. So far, they tell me it seems to be working like it should, but then again, how would I know what is normal? There is nothing normal in this hell I’m in.
Yesterday, we went to Dr. Tremblay’s office. He wanted me to be part of a test group, one where they give some of us the real thing and the others what he called a … well, anyway, it was the fake one.
Monique said she wanted the doctor to give me the real thing. The doctor said he couldn’t guarantee it, but that I had a 50 percent chance. The drug was like an experiment or something, and the only way I could possibly get it was to be part of the group. Monique went ballistic. I have never seen her so angry. She told the doctor in a loud voice that I was a human being, not a guinea pig. Sometimes I think Monique loves me.
Monique
How Sad for Him, How Sad for Me
S aul was sitting in front of the television, a blank look on his face. He seemed so sad, so empty. And he has every right to be that way. What does he have to look forward to? What quality of life? What happiness? It takes him forever to get dressed. His taste buds are diminishing. The doctor said he’s all but lost his sense of smell. Mon Dieu , that’s half the enjoyment of eating. And I always seem to be cutting up his food when we go out. I know he can sort of do it most of the time, but I am tired of being embarrassed in public. Mind you, having people watch me cut his meat isn’t exactly a pleasure, either.
He certainly can’t enjoy wearing clothes like he used to. He doesn’t seem to be able to focus on a book anymore, and his patience when it comes to playing cards or games is almost nonexistent. As far as I’m concerned, he has no quality of life. And he is really getting depressed. I do everything I can to distract him from all the desolation he must be going through, but it’s a losing battle.
Maybe he’d be better off dead, and maybe I’d be better off, too.
I know you are probably saying to yourself, What a shrew she is! Her poor husband is ill, dying a slow, wretched death, and she’s there pitying herself. That may be how it appears, but it’s not the case. I wish people could understand
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