I wrote this the day reality set it. October 3, 2018. He was no longer able to work or drive. It's been 13 months. What we later learned his his disease had progressed on to late stage and he had a seizure. Several since. This is what happened that day.
After the 6th call of a number I didn’t know called, I reluctantly answered my phone.
It was a cop.
First he assure me my husband was ok. Then he tells me he was in a minor wreck, but then asked if I knew of any medications my husband was. I explained about the dementia medication.
Patrick had hit someone from behind. Instead of pulling over, he kept driving. The person hit called it in and they pulled him over a mile and a half up the road. The police officer said something is off on your husband. He thinks he blacked out and said he took his medication this morning and it makes him sleepy.
He then asked if someone was close by because he did not feel like Patrick could drive. I sent Todd and Jane Powell, Patrick’s cousin and my best friend.
I get a call from Jane. Todd is driving Patrick’s truck behind her. She explained that the policeman said Patrick was unable to unlock his phone, couldn’t remember their last name, and couldn’t remember Jane’s name, but that she was tall and had red hair. She then explained that the policeman is turning Patrick over to a medical review board to have his license revoked.
It had begun. The phase that is the final thief. Stealing my husband, robbing us of what was suppose to be.. crushing my very soul. I could not breathe. We are now into phase 5.
No more of phase 4. I knew from the date of his official diagnosis August 2017, that I would have just over a year left of Patrick, the man who loved to sing karaoke with me at home and who’s favorite thing to do for vacations or on a Sunday morning, was to drive. The man who takes the long way to get some place, because he liked to see the backroads of life.
I have Spasmodic dysphonia so I sing for joy and therapy when I can't talk. He stopped singing with me because he had a hard time following the words and couldn’t remember the melody, to even his favorite George Strait songs. And now this. If he looses his license, he will lose his job and he will loose his ability to be independent. This, I know will make the disease progresses faster. This is why, in my heart, this phase, the last phase that he has until he no longer knows me, is typically 18 months. It’s the shortest phase of the 7...shakes me to my core.
Hours later, I was able to speak to my husband. I kept my tone very normal, like an everyday conversation. So I asked what was up, instead of what happened?
The moment he started to speak, it was slower, I knew I was speaking to “It”, not my husband. Younger onset Alzheimer's was talking to me. I really hate her.
Sure enough, his account was, he was driving and a cop pulled him over, didn’t like the way he was driving, and that he thinks it’s his medication making him tired. He then said, "Now I’m here" (Todd and Jane’s). I then explained what actually happened. I told him that he was have a dementia moment. I told him that we are going to see his doctor and we will get things taken care of. He was childlike in his answers. Just saying ok, very softly at each pause when I spoke.
I told him to stay there and Todd will drive him to get clothes for the night.
In his desperate attempt to reach me, he disabled his phone after the 100th attempt.
Jane worked to fix it, while Patrick fell asleep in a chair on their back porch.
It was around 2:30, 5 hours since I got that call.
Speaking to Patrick, he sounded like himself.
I asked if he remembered what happened. He said not really. He remembered getting coffee at a Quicktrip, but that’s really all. Kinda remembered talking to a cop and to me. I told him about his license and the medical review board.
I could tell he was scared and I could tell he was fighting back the tears. It’s our soul source of income. He just turned 57 in July. The brutal reality was in his face and he was being forced to look at it head on. Denial was no longer an option for him. He repeatedly said, “ I just don’t understand, this has never happened before”.
I told him I loved him, we will get through this. That we just needed to get him home and he did not have to worry, we are in this together.
He wanted to hang up.. he got out a soft ok, but it was deafening in my heart. He felt broken and I could actually feel his pain. It hurt.
Grief. I cried so much my eyes and head hurt. But it didn’t match the hurt I felt for my husband. The absolute raw pain that really can’t be described. So I cry, I talk to my friends and I write. This disease, each new phase we enter, means the death of the other. I’m loosing my soulmate in pieces. 7 phases of dementia = 7 painful deaths.
I told him to stay there and Todd will drive him to get clothes for the night.
In his desperate attempt to reach me, he disabled his phone after the 100th attempt.
Jane worked to fix it, while Patrick fell asleep in a chair on their back porch.
It was around 2:30, 5 hours since I got that call.
Speaking to Patrick, he sounded like himself.
I asked if he remembered what happened. He said not really. He remembered getting coffee at a Quicktrip, but that’s really all. Kinda remembered talking to a cop and to me. I told him about his license and the medical review board.
I could tell he was scared and I could tell he was fighting back the tears. It’s our soul source of income. He just turned 57 in July. The brutal reality was in his face and he was being forced to look at it head on. Denial was no longer an option for him. He repeatedly said, “ I just don’t understand, this has never happened before”.
I told him I loved him, we will get through this. That we just needed to get him home and he did not have to worry, we are in this together.
He wanted to hang up.. he got out a soft ok, but it was deafening in my heart. He felt broken and I could actually feel his pain. It hurt.
Grief. I cried so much my eyes and head hurt. But it didn’t match the hurt I felt for my husband. The absolute raw pain that really can’t be described. So I cry, I talk to my friends and I write. This disease, each new phase we enter, means the death of the other. I’m loosing my soulmate in pieces. 7 phases of dementia = 7 painful deaths.
#WeWalkThisTogether #EarlyOnsetAlzheimer #YoungerOnsetAlzheimer #Alzheimer #EOA #EOAD
These pictures are from that month. So much as changed. We lost our dog Willie a few months later due to, yes another rare disease, Caine Addison's disease ( I know what are the odds)
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