I am not a psychologist or a physician. I'm a lawyer who works with families every day, helping them solve problems before they happen. Estate, business, and tax planning are all about control.
But dementia is different. Professionally, I understood that. Personally, I had no idea how devastating the loss of control could be for both the person living with dementia and the people who love them.
A beloved member of my family, whom I'll call Annie, began showing subtle changes. At the time, none of us recognized what was happening. When she was finally diagnosed with dementia, it felt like a ton of bricks. Looking back, though, the clues had been there all along.
Our family talks every day by phone, text, or email. Annie stayed connected, came to family gatherings, watched the dog, and always seemed like herself.
The first clue came when she drove me to the airport. Annie had lived in Arizona since graduating from the University of Arizona in the 1960s, yet she missed a familiar airport exit. What concerned me most wasn't the mistake, it was how upset she became. I had to guide her back to the airport. When I called her later that day, she seemed perfectly fine, so I blamed the incident on stress.
A month later, another clue appeared. Annie always spent Christmas at her second home in Northridge, California, near the family she grew up with. But one evening she called my sister and said, "Something is wrong. I have to come home." She drove back to Scottsdale but couldn't explain why. When we asked, she simply laughed it off.
Then the changes became harder to ignore. Annie stopped calling us every day. She said her cell phone was broken, so the calls stopped. Then she told us her computer was broken, and the emails stopped too.
That was especially unlike Annie. She loved sending articles she thought would help each of us, including healthy pregnancy tips for Elizabeth, career ideas for Eddie, and thoughtful information for everyone else. It was one of the many ways she showed her love.
Now we were paying closer attention. We knew something wasn't right, but we still didn't know what.
One day I went to check on her. I found months of unopened mail piled up in the garage. Inside, the house was dirty and smelled as though it hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Annie wasn't home. Her car was gone.
In that moment, everything came together. It felt like a bucket of cold water had been poured over me.
I knew.
Annie had dementia.
The question was no longer what was wrong?
It was what do we do now?
Ilene
To be continued….