My Disappearing Act Read online

  © 2019 Pastime Publications. All rights reserved.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Requests for permission should be addressed to:

  Pastime Publications

  1370 Trancas Street, #372

  Napa, CA 94558

  (707) 252-4062

  www.napavalleypastime.com

  ISBN: 978-1-54398-699-0 eBook 978-1-54398-700-3

  Front Cover Photo Credit:

  Coyote Kisses Photography

  Tami Riedeman, Photographer

  P.O. Box 614

  Sandstone, MN 55072

  This book is dedicated to the nearly 44 million souls worldwide who are living with Alzheimer’s or some form of dementia, and to those who have the daunting task of caring for them.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Introduction

  No one really knows what goes on inside the minds of Alzheimer’s patients. What if they have full understanding? What if their minds have just short-circuited with the other parts of their bodies? This fiction account of the disease is told through the eyes of Patsy, whose family has no time for her. To them, she is as good as dead. She becomes trapped and alone inside your own mind, unable to communicate.

  What if Patsy’s experiences are what really happens to a person with Alzheimer’s? What if they can see, hear, and understand? How does anyone really know but them?

  The author’s hope through this novel is to inspire the reader to see their loved one who suffers from Alzheimer’s or dementia as a real person with real feelings. As the disease progresses and the patient becomes less alive on the outside, be reminded that we have no idea what they are experiencing on the inside. Who’s to say that a touch or the sound of a soft spoken expression of love does not get through to the heart of the patient who seems so very far away? Don’t abandon them. Talk to them. Read to them. Hold their hands. Love them while they are still with you, even though it seems they are gone, because no one really knows for sure.

  My eyes do see,

  My ears do hear,

  I am still Me, so let’s be clear,

  My memory may fade,

  My walk may slow,

  I am Me inside,

  Don’t let Me go.

  Author Unknown

  Chapter 1

  Dale and I moved to the mountains of northern California about five years ago to enjoy our retirement. Not long after we arrived, my sweet husband was diagnosed with lung cancer and our world was turned upside down. His other health issues were manageable up to that point, but this latest challenge has taken a toll on both of us.

  Surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments have all come to an end, as it now seems there is nothing else that can be done to stop the spread of this awful disease. If another treatment is suggested, Dale has decided he will decline. It is all too much for this 80 year old, obese, diabetic man.

  There has been too much going on with Dale’s health issues for us to be concerned about my forgetting to feed the cat or, instead, filling the food bowl with kitty litter, or putting my car keys in the freezer for no good reason. But how can I be losing my mind when I am still driving and have never gotten lost? Sure, I forget where I parked sometimes, but doesn’t everyone do that?

  With all we have been going through, we have both written off my lapses in memory as stress. Now it’s time for my yearly checkup. I didn’t want to change doctors, so Dale drives me to the town where we used to live to see Dr. Wills, who has been my regular physician for over 30 years. His office is in Drake Valley, California, where I was born and raised and where Dale and I first met.

  It’s a straight shot down Interstate 5 to Drake Valley and takes about four hours, depending on the traffic. Once a small, rural, farming community, the town is located several miles north of Sacramento, California. With the addition of the new business park and subsequent housing tracts, the population of Drake Valley had grown to nearly 30,000 by the time we left for the mountains. Several ranches and orchards remain, but the commercial sector of town has grown considerably since I was young. One side of the freeway houses the original commerce of mom and pop shops. Across the highway there is a new shopping mall and strip malls have popped up all over town.

  Dr. Wills is an older gentleman who has a wonderful bedside manner. His sense of humor may be what keeps him going. He always jokes that he will practice medicine until he dies, and that, perhaps by that time he will have practiced long enough to finally have gotten it right.

  Following my exam, Dr. Wills asks that Dale and I come into his office. I know from past experience this is rarely a good sign.

  As we each take a seat, Dale holds my hand. He senses it is bad news and wants to make sure I know he is there with me.

  “I’d like Patsy to have a scan of her brain. From her symptoms, she may be suffering from some form of dementia, but we want to make sure.”

  Dale asks, “Can this be done near where we live, or do we have to come back here?”

  “I can set it up for wherever is more convenient. But I’d like you to do it as soon as possible.”

  The doctor does not want to go into too many details about dementia until he knows for sure what is going on. He doesn’t mention the word Alzheimer’s, as I’m sure he knows I will anticipate the worst, when it may be something minor.

  I think to myself, it’s probably nothing, just stress. Then, of course, I begin to anticipate the worst. What if it isn’t something minor? And if it’s not Alzheimer’s, then maybe I have a brain tumor. I appreciate the doctor not wanting me to get worked up over it, so I agree to the test and the doctor calls Memorial Hospital in Weaverville, nea
r our home.

  Dale and I are both quiet on our drive home from Drake Valley. I gaze out the window at the orchards on the outskirts of town. I try to recall a more innocent, happy time, when I was a little girl running through the fields with my friend. Her family owned one of the larger almond orchards. Oh, what fun we used to have, playing hide-and-seek among the trees. How can I be suffering from dementia when I have such vivid memories of my childhood? I become worried, though, when I can’t remember my friend’s name.

  Dale and I arrive home at suppertime. He suggests we stop at Kate’s Diner for a bite to eat.

  I shake my head and mumble an “um-hum.”

  Neither one of us has much of an appetite. We both order the chicken fried steak, which is Kate’s specialty, but half of it comes home in a box to warm up for lunch tomorrow.

  “I think we’re going to have an early winter.” Dale tries his best to distract me from my worrisome thoughts, but, as he well knows, I have always been one to think too much. I begin to wonder if that’s the real reason I forget things. I fill my mind with so many thoughts it can’t absorb them all. Up until now I’ve been more worried about Dale and the possibility of having to live the rest of my life without him. I try not to show my anxiety about our future and just smile.

  The following day we receive a call from the hospital. They take down pertinent information from Dale and set up an appointment for my brain scan the following day.

  On the way to the hospital for the scan, Dale has his left hand on the steering wheel and with the other he holds my left hand tightly. He is such a comfort to me. I don’t want to think about the future, especially without him. I know he is not well and will probably not be around much longer. I try to take it one day at a time, not dwelling on the what-ifs, but sometimes that’s easier said than done.

  Dale stays in the waiting room as I go in for my test. It is painless, except for the uncomfortably hard surface I have to lie on and the extremely loud noise. I am told to stay completely still. I try to hold my breath so I won’t move. God forbid I should have to come back and do this again only because I flinched and they didn’t get a good enough picture. Part of me doesn’t want to know the results. Throughout the entire test I am praying, God, please make this all go away. I want my life to be normal again. And please, Lord, heal my sweet husband. I need him now more than ever. I pray I don’t cry, because if I do, I will begin to shake and that surely will nullify the test.

  Finally, it is over. The technician will be forwarding the results directly to Dr. Wills, who will contact us in a few days.

  The next week seems like an eternity. Just when I am almost successful at putting all of this out of my mind, the phone rings. I see Martin Wills, M.D. on the caller ID. I hesitate picking up. After five or six rings, Dale answers. I watch his face as the doctor describes the results of my scans. Dale cannot hide his grief and fear as he listens. By the time he hangs up, I am crying, because I know.

  Dale sits next to me and holds me tightly. He explains my diagnosis and prognosis. Even though I had anticipated the worst, I was not prepared for it. Neither is Dale. It seems my lapses in memory are not caused by the overwhelming stress, although that is a factor in my inability to focus at times. According to the scan, my brain is not functioning as it once did and, based on my symptoms which Dale described to the doctor at our visit, I may have been in the early stage of Alzheimer’s for a long time, but things are definitely progressing into the next stage.

  Part of me thinks maybe a brain tumor would have been better. At least I could have surgery to have it removed, or it could just kill me quickly. Instead, I am destined to become a burden on someone for God only knows how long, because I will no longer be able to function on my own. Someone will have to feed me, bathe me, dress me, and change my diapers. It’s like going backwards. These are all the things my mother did for me when I was a baby. And here I am again, 75 years later, with the same needs, but now I’m a grown woman. All of this is just too much for my mind to absorb.

  Dale and I sit in silence, tightly together. I don’t ever want him to let go. My tears finally subside, yet Dale doesn’t know what to say or do next. Not even a hint of his usual jovial sense of humor can penetrate the deep sorrow we are both feeling. I fear for Dale with his health issues, and what will happen to me if he dies before I do.

  When we moved up to the mountains, I may have already begun to show early signs of Alzheimer’s, but neither of us gave it much thought. It’s forgetting the little things, which everyone seems to experience at one time or another as they get older. In hindsight, it should have been obvious what was going on in my brain because, for me, it wasn’t always a little thing, like losing your keys or forgetting where you parked your car. Once I went shopping and left the groceries in the trunk for two days. After noticing the stench inside the car, I discovered my mistake. There were times when I would be on the phone with a friend and later they told me I became distracted, said I would be right back, and then never returned. And I equated not knowing what day of the week it was to being retired, and no longer having to hold to a strict work schedule.

  It has been a few weeks since my diagnosis. Tomorrow I have another appointment with Dr. Wills. He wants to talk about a treatment plan.

  Treatment plan? I didn’t know there was anything that could be done. I am cautiously optimistic with this news. Maybe there is a new drug or something I can take.

  Dale is feeling very weak and dizzy today. Instead of changing my appointment, I tell him I will be fine driving myself.

  “I don’t know, Honey.”

  “It’s right off the freeway,” I explain.

  “I realize you’ve been driving all over town safely, but...”

  “I’ll be fine. I know my hometown.”

  Dale adds, “I also want to hear what the doctor has to say.”

  “You can call him.”

  Dale hesitates for a few moments. Then he continues “Since I don’t know when I will feel like driving you, and I know we both want to hear what our options are, I guess it will be okay for you to drive. I do wish we could think of someone who could go with you, but that is a lot to ask, eight hours in a car.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will. I will call the doctor after your appointment and see what he has to say.”

  “I can stay overnight.”

  “With Mark?” Mark is my younger son. I really don’t want to stay with him. His wife doesn’t like me very much.

  “No. Janet.” She is my former next-door neighbor and best friend.

  “That will be good,” Dale agrees. He knows Janet will watch over me.

  Dale calls Janet and explains our dilemma and, without hesitation, agrees that I should stay with her overnight.

  I arrive into town the day before my appointment. I am able to find Janet’s street with no problem. After all, I had lived there for many years after my divorce from my second husband. My two sons, Chet from my first husband and Mark from my second, still live in Drake Valley. They are 55 and 47, respectively, I’m guessing. I lose track of the years. It’s sad that I would rather stay overnight at Janet’s than to impose on either of my sons. They haven’t had a lot of contact with me since I moved. My best friend, of course, is aware of my past difficulties with my sons.

  As soon as I arrive I call Dale to tell him I made it in one piece. He sounds relieved, but I know he won’t relax until I am home safely.

  Janet and I have a nice visit. I am still able to communicate pretty well at this point. I just become a bit disoriented at times and experience little glitches in my memory.

  Janet is a widow, a bit older than me. She has aged a lot since we last saw each other. She still calls me regularly to see how I’m doing. She used to wear her hair long and styled. Now it is cut very short and has turned totally gray. I’m sure it is much easier to take care of. She is s
till slender, but is not as active as she once was. I remember when I lived next door she would go on long walks with a friend several times a week.

  Janet’s husband was a successful salesman, but I can’t remember what he sold. She was an elementary school teacher and stopped working when her first child was born. I always envied that, since my work schedule left me little time to do anything for myself. It was all about my sons. Janet never went back to teaching after her children were grown, so she has been able to spend quality time with her grandchildren. I envy that, too. I have two granddaughters I hardly know.

  Janet was the best neighbor and friend. I remember on cold, winter nights when I had to work until after dark, Janet would show up with a pot of homemade soup or a casserole for dinner. I wish I had been able to repay her for her kindness. I know she also kept an eye on Mark when I had to leave him alone.

  I ask Janet about her family. Her daughters still live in town, and one or both will visit every day. They have each given Janet two grandsons who are grown and have families of their own. They also visit frequently. I wish I could say the same about my boys. I never see them. Janet tells me she ran into Chet at the grocery store the other day and asked about me. He said I was fine. Like he would know.

  I don’t know why, but I repeat many of my questions to Janet that she has already answered. I guess that’s one of the curses of this disease. She is so patient with me, answering, no matter how many times I ask.

  I ask her about the other neighbors. We had been a tight community back in the day. Most of them have either died or moved. I ask her about my neighbor on the other side, Bessie Webster. She said that Bessie’s son Michael and his family are living in the house, and that Bessie died in a freak accident a few years ago. I am sad to hear this. Bessie was such a sweet lady. It was because of her that I started going back to church. I am glad to hear that Michael is doing well.

  I ask Janet if she wouldn’t mind driving me over to the house where I grew up. I just want to see it one more time, spark some memories of my younger days. When we drive by, I can see that the entire neighborhood is run down, and there is a rusted car up on blocks in the driveway of my old house, and the front yard is full of weeds. It makes me sad to think nobody cares about my house. It looks like a hoarder lives here.