Monday morning I run down to the motel’s continental breakfast, bringing back cereal, bananas, and coffee. Just finishing coffee, the phone rings. I look at Carol, then pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Good morning. How are you this morning?” Dr. Greenberg asks.
“Fine, thank you.” I’d been waiting for this call. We both had been waiting, but not mentioning it in words. I’m sure it’s nothing, maybe a gland problem they haven’t found yet, or a blood disorder not picked up. In New York, we had the best doctor’s and hospitals. I was sure someone would find out what was wrong with her, and finally asked, “Do you have any news for us?”
He goes into a long explanation of Carol’s PET scan and other tests. Some I understand, most I don’t. “I’m sorry to tell you Rose, Carol has a dementia disease known as Alzheimer’s.”
I hear him, yet don’t. I ask him to repeat it. Again, I hear the word, Alzheimer’s. I stand from my safe sitting spot on the bed. I can’t say anything and want him to take back the ‘word’. I’m unable to say anything while he finishes telling me his findings.
“Thank you,” I say and hang up.
Thank you. Thank you for what? You don’t thank someone for this word. You thank someone when they say God bless you, after you sneeze, or when they give you a gift. This wasn’t a sneeze or a gift. There wasn’t anything to say Thank you for?
Carol, reading by the window looks at me. “Who was it?”
I can’t answer.
“Was it the doctor?”
I hear, but don’t know what to say. I need to get my thoughts in order. Alzheimer’s? How? Why? Where did she get it? How bad is it?
Again, as in a distance she asks, “What is it?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” How do I tell her when I don’t believe it myself? How do I do this? There were no lessons in school on this. How do you tell someone they’re ill or possibly going to die? Who knows what will happen? We never used this word. We didn’t know anyone who had this word. After a few minutes I put my words together, “Yes, that was the doctor.”
“Well, what did he say?”
I look at her, feeling pity—no, sorrow—no, nothing. I’m numb, in shock. Like a robot, I speak, “The doctor says you have Alzheimer’s disease.”
She stares at me for what seems a long time. Then her eyes go wide, and then closes them. Her mouth forms an O as she throws back her head, “Oh, my God…No!” Her hands cover her face and she leans forward, her body shakes with hard sobs. I go to her, kneel on the floor and hold her.
“Oh God,” she cries. And my heart cries with her. “I’ll need to go to a nursing home,” she says.
“No—no, you won’t. We’ll go through this together. I promise. Maybe they’re wrong, maybe they made a mistake.” I cry with her, letting her know we will go through this together. Somewhere tucked in my heart, I know the love between us is stronger than any illness. That alone will cure her. I know YOU will hear our cries, dear Lord. In bed I pull the cover up around us, and hold her for a long time.
***This is what it’s like when Alzheimer’s enters your world. A ‘word’ that still has no cure. How many Baby Boomers will be diagnosed next year? I can’t even guess.
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