Free Dignifying Dementia by Elizabeth Tierney Page A

hamburger, and after dinner, we went to our rooms. I was afraid to be alone with him. Maggie was in the adjoining room and told me to phone her if I needed help. Jim climbed into bed in the strange room and fell asleep; I climbed into bed and stayed awake.
    The next morning I was tired and ached from the tension. I drove to Hilton Head and parked outside our condo. Jim opened the car door, got out, went right upstairs to our apartment, took the key, unlocked the door, walked in and headed for the bathroom. He knew where he was. I, on the other hand, was exhausted. We never went north together again.

    Now paranoid and delusional, Jim was also having spatial problems. He seemed to have difficulty differentiating between a hole, a dark space or a shadow on the floor; he urinated in the wastebasket rather than the toilet. He was increasingly and more frequently ‘paranoid.’ Believing people were stealing from him, he hid his wallet, his glasses and his Ferragamo loafers. Later in his illness, he would still hide them, but in plain sight – on the floor at the foot of the bed.
    By now we had another new internist. As compassionate and helpful as our previous one had been, Jim could not, and would not, sit in a waiting room for an hour and a half to see him. The new internist met Jim and recommended that we try Paxil for his anxiety. Once again, the Paxil made him more anxious and more paranoid. I assumed and hoped, like the doctors, that perhaps some small amount of some medication might help him, but one part of a tablet invariably told the whole story.
    Because the Parkinsonism caused him problems with his movement and rigidity, I asked the internist for a referral for Jim to have some physical therapy, hoping that it might help, even though going to the gym had been a bust. Thankfully, the doctor did and also referred him for occupational therapy as well. That failed, but his meeting with the physical therapist was a resounding success.
    His physical therapist, Denny, was a retired marine, and they hit it off instantly. We went to the Rehab Center three times a week. Denny gave Jim some simple exercises like walking on the treadmill or riding on a stationary bike for a few minutes. Denny was friendly, patient and persistent, and Jim was completely at ease. They also walked on uneven ground together to help him maintain his balance. Happily, I wrote a story for a Savannah paper about Denny’s remarkable career change.

    During the visit in which the new internist had written the prescription for Paxil and for rehab, with Jim within earshot, it was suggested that it was over and that I should put him away.
    It’s over? Put him away? I still hear those words. Whatever “IT” was, “IT” wasn’t over. I adored this man. Over! For better or for worse, … in sickness and in health. This man being talked about and apparently dismissed was my husband. “Put him away”? Well, that was another matter altogether, one that I hadn’t thought about, and Jim had asked several times, “Do I need a home?”
    That night and the next and the next, I thought about what had been said. Was that something I should consider? Would Jim be better off in a facility? Would he get better care than I could give him at home? Would a nursing home be a safer environment for him? Would he be happier?
    I was familiar with facilities like that. My dad had lived in a nursing home for years. My grandmother had lived in a retirement home, too, and I knew people with family in nursing homes. I dismissed with contempt the first part of the statement about it’s being over. But I said to myself, maybe, maybe I should try ‘putting him away.’
    The opportunity arose to try a facility when Jim went through another bad patch; he was so confused I had taken him to the local hospital again, thinking naïvely that trained medical professionals might help him better than I could. He was admitted. I