Free Dignifying Dementia by Elizabeth Tierney

not. He was ‘hallucinating.’
    He continued going to his appointments with the Professor, but he rarely spoke anymore. When the Professor asked him where he lived, Jim said, “Yonkers.” His body was suffering, too. He seemed more rigid and his tremor more pronounced.
    Because of his increasing stiffness, I encouraged him to come with me to a gym to walk on a treadmill. He did a few times. I even tried to have him work with a personal trainer and to try some yoga. But he could not follow directions, so that was that.
    One evening, before going to Tanglewood – which we still did – he asked me, “How will the ushers know which seats are ours? How will the ushers know our seats?” He repeated the questions over and over again. I didn’t know how to talk to a confused man. He was anxious, and we had the ‘conversation’ for over half an hour.
    Once again I bought box seats for the final concert of the season, Beethoven’s Ninth . I finally grasped the fact that our lives were changing irrevocably. What I knew for sure was that we weren’t coming back North. I fought back tears, as I listened to the Boston Symphony and looked at Jim beside me.
    I also realized that I could not make the drive back south alone with Jim in his current condition. I needed help. He was too agitated. I asked friends, but the timing wasn’t convenient. Then my neighbor offered, but she needed to wait for a few weeks, and we were already seeing snow flurries, so I called a friend in Boston. I asked, “If I fly you back, would you drive south with us?” Maggie said, “Yes.”
    We picked the day, packed and began the drive. For the first five hours, Jim was his old self, and I was feeling foolish about needing someone to come with us. We stopped for coffee along the New York State Thruway. Jim and Maggie actually chatted about politics – slowly, but they chatted. We climbed back in the car and drove on to Allentown where we stopped for lunch, but this time, when he got back in the car, he became fearful. “Where are we going? Call the police. Turn around. We are driving the wrong way.” He was panicked. He calmed down when Maggie reached between the seats and took hold of his hand.
    I didn’t know what to do. Should I turn around? Should I go forward? I gripped the wheel. I tried to talk to him rationally. I continued driving. North or South? Lenox or Hilton Head? Small apartment or bigger apartment? Snow or sun? I decided to drive to the sun, the warmth and the additional space. Do I drive all night? Can I drive straight through? What will he do, if we stop? I was scared.
    The closer we got to Washington DC, the more agitated he became. He was waiting for “orders.” I wondered why. Could it have been because I had turned on the TV on September 11, and he had watched the towers collapse? That morning he had sat glued to the set with tears rolling down his cheeks. What had he understood? Now he seemed paranoid. Were the images still in his head? He used words like “power” and “control.” I couldn’t understand. He spoke of “them.” I had no idea who “them” was. Maggie kept holding his hand.
    We needed to stop, so we found a Cracker Barrel. What would he do? He got out of the car as calmly as you please. He went to the men’s room on his own. We got a bite to eat. He was fine. Then we got back in the car to leave, and he stared at me and said, “You stole my money! What did you do with my money?”
    Again Maggie held his hand and assured him that he was OK. At this point he made an introduction. He looked at me and said, “This is my wife.” He was introducing Maggie, as his wife, to me.
    Maggie held his hand for the next several hundred miles. With my heart in my throat, we stopped for the night; once again, he climbed out of the car as if everything was fine. We went to the restaurant; he ordered a