Chapter One

The Dreaded “A” Word

Spring 2005

My husband doesn’t know my name. After thirty years of love and companionship, he no longer knows what part I play in his life.

He comes up the stairs to the loft where I am working at the computer. Everything appears normal. He is a hale and healthy man of seventy-five, though lately he has been losing more weight than is good for him.

"Say, gal," he says. "How about getting me a phone number so I can call my wife?" He says "gal" because he doesn't know who I am. He speaks in a complete sentence, and by that I know he is hallucinating. When I ask who he wants to call, he responds, "Brenda." He dislikes Brenda and would never talk to her.

"How about Cheryl?" I ask. "I don't have Brenda's phone number." He agrees. I call his first wife, and Lee and Cheryl have a "conversation." Cheryl is very kind and talks to him at length. Lee tries to hold the phone to his ear and listen. Sometimes he gets a couple words out and I can tell some lucidity is returning because his speech becomes more difficult. The phone frequently slips to his neck and he looks puzzled.

My husband has been stolen from me by a disease called Alzheimer's. It has been almost five years since he was diagnosed with dementia; three since a neurological reaction to hernia surgery slammed us up against the wall with the dreaded "A" word. I've kept him at home, caring for him by myself. The disease is insidious and has led me down a deep, dark path so craftily that I am in way over my head before I realize what has happened.

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