Read Online Slow Dancing with a Stranger by Meryl Comer - Free Book Online

let me see around blind corners, allowing me to monitor him from another room. If he seemed angry or agitated, I had a few moments to decide whether to confront him.
    This was the bleakest period yet. I felt trapped in my own home. Then my world opened up a bit with the birth of my first grandchild, a precious baby girl named Hope. She was doll-like, less than six pounds with perfect little features. I watched Jason through the glass window, hovering over her in intensive care. It was a disquieting scene because it reminded me how helpless and how dependent we are on doctors for answers. All the while, Harvey was regressing. Even though I have a photo of the two of us holding Hope in the hospital room, Harvey never knew Hope or any of his five grandchildren. I quickly realized it was too difficult to take Harvey with me when I wanted to see Hope, Eli, and Benjamin. I paid a nurse to stay extra hours while I drove to my son’s house to help care for and play with my grandchildren. It lifted my spirits to see how each of them responded to me as their “Nana.” The unconditional love and energy I poured into them came back in very direct and honest ways. They were my antidepressant of choice; the only joy in my life, filling me with hope where there was none.
    At home with Harvey, I worked harder and harder, but the person I loved was disappearing bit by bit mentally and physically right before my eyes.
    At our visit to Hopkins, Dr. Rabins had warned me that over time, as Harvey’s symptoms got worse, the efficacy of the medication he had prescribed would likely diminish. At some point, the dosage levels might need to be adjusted. It didn’t take long before this happened, but I kept quietly trying to manage the situation alone through phone consults. The doctor had already increased the antidepressant when I began having trouble coaxing Harvey to get up in the morning. Even with the increased dose, I often had to wake him by saying, “Dr. Gralnick, your patients are waiting. They need you.” Though that seems cruel, it was truly the only way to get his cooperation. By the time he was dressed, he had already forgotten the ruse.
    I frantically looked for options to tame his symptoms. I played New Age music at night and used aromatherapy; I pumped up his favorite rock ’n’ roll from the 1970s so loud he could hear it anywhere in the house. Nothing seemed to help. There were also signs of physical deterioration. I noticed that Harvey had difficulty negotiating the steps up to the second-floor bedroom. He was fearful and timid, sometimes taking nearly fifteen minutes to mount a flight of stairs. Was it a depth perception issue? Would a new prescription for eyeglasses help? I took him to see the doctor, but the eye exam was inconclusive.
    Time weighed heavily for both of us. I checked off each month like a scorecard and test of my own resilience. Another two years passed.
    It was clear that Harvey was slowly and progressively getting worse. If anything, his anxieties seemed more pronounced despite the medications. He shadowed me around the house, refusing to leave my side. Sweating profusely, he continuously paced the family room or kitchen. It got harder to stay out of his way. I tried to come up with strategies to protect myself but usually had no time to prepare. Harvey’s anger came from someplace out of my reach. It was like a sudden summer storm, his face quickly turning menacing. Often he grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip. Unable to pull free and fearing he might break my arm, I would deliberately move closer to him. I kept my head and chin down so he couldn’t get at my throat with his other hand. Then I would hug him with my free arm and say as calmly as the rising fear would allow, “You are a great doctor. You help people, not hurt them. I know you are frustrated, but I am the one who helps you.” I kept on talking until something in my conversation or tone distracted