Since starting this journal in 2011, I have not kept a regular schedule for my entries. I write when something catches my attention. As I have looked back to the early years, I notice that I didn’t write nearly as often. I think that’s because Kate wasn’t experiencing as many changes. Our lives weren’t significantly different than they were before the diagnosis. Now there are so many things occurring that I find it impossible for me to remember them all.
That has been particularly true over the past few months. While I don’t know what life will be like in the next six to twelve months, I do have a distinct impression that Kate is going through a transition period. The most prominent sign of that is her forgetting close family and friends. It also includes a failure to recognize where she is. A year ago, she had difficulty remembering where we were when we traveled to another city like Asheville or Fort Worth. Now she doesn’t remember where she is when we are right here in Knoxville. As we drove to Chalupas for dinner last night, she asked, “Does this city have a name?” When I told her, she said, “I know that. It just slipped my mind.” Unlike the early days, she didn’t sound very frustrated that she hadn’t remembered.
As we left the restaurant, she asked, “Where are we right now.” I told her again that we were in Knoxville. Then I mentioned that we had lived here 47 years and that was much longer than we had lived any other place. She said, “What’s the name again?” Once more I told her. She repeated the name several times. About a mile down the road, she asked me to tell her again.
It’s not just people and places she is having trouble with. On the way to lunch yesterday, I commented on the seeing the first blossoms of Lady Banks roses. She said, “You’re going to have to tell me the names of all of the flowers later when I am more awake.” I felt a touch of sadness hearing her say this. She has always loved these roses and the other flowering trees and plants are be beginning to come out. What a shame to see her lose these memories.
Although I said she doesn’t seem to express a high degree of frustration when these things happen, she often says things like, “I know you get tired of my asking you.” That let’s me know that she recognizes that she keeps asking the same questions. I keep giving her the same answer, “That’s what I am here for. I want you to ask as often as you want to. Remember I am your ‘MM.’” That is the nickname she gave to me some time ago. It stands for “My Memory.”
One of the other changes that I have noticed is that she is more sentimental than she used to be. In the last few weeks, I have seen her with tears in her eyes several times. This is a rather dramatic change from the past. She has never been one to cry. Since her diagnosis, two different types of situations have brought her to tears. At first, it was the panic attacks she had when I was trying to get her to hurry to get someplace. I quickly adapted by trying to avoid any time deadlines, when possible. On several occasions, when we might have to rush to get to a concert, I would simply choose not to attend. For quite a while, I have tried not to schedule anything in the morning. Now I have become more rigid. I don’t schedule anything before noon. I even changed the office we go to for her doctor’s appointments. Now we go to one on the other side of town so that she could have afternoon appointments.
Her recent tears have occurred when thinking of good things that have touched her. One of those is music. The other is her family. As her memory of other things began to fade, she talked a lot about her family. That was particularly common when we were with friends. I think that was because her memory made it difficult to remember everyday things like events in the news or other things that were happening with our friends. That interest in family continues but with a different twist. Now she talks with me about her parents and their families as well as our own immediate family.
Yesterday afternoon I mentioned something about a cousin of hers who recently passed away. That prompted her to reflect on her mother and father and then her aunts and uncles. Her father was one of eight children, so she had plenty of aunts and uncles. Six of them lived in Fort Worth where Kate grew up. Another lived a short distance away in Dallas. Only one lived out of state. That meant she had many childhood experiences with her larger family. As she talked, she got more sentimental. She kept saying, “That’s all I’m going to say.” A second later she would continue. Mostly she said the same things again. As she did, I could see the tears welling up in her eyes.
She seems to be working hard to hold on to what remains of her memory and her ability to handle life. One example is her asking me to tell her the names of people and friends. I can also tell that in moments when she has been quiet, she has been thinking of someone’s name. For example, yesterday in the car, she said, “Ken Franklin.” That is her brother. One other time she said her mother’s name. I asked if she had been trying to think of the name. She said, “I knew the name. It just wouldn’t come to me.”
She has always been careful to make up the bed every morning. She once told me that her mother had emphasized that was something she should always do right away. Two or three years ago, she stopped. Recently, she has started again. She doesn’t do it perfectly. The important thing is that she does it. I see it as another effort to take control of some aspects of her life.
She has become so open about not remembering names that I did something I have avoided doing until today. Without her asking, I asked her if she knew what city we were in. She said very calmly without conveying any sense of being troubled, “No.” I told her once again, “We live in Knoxville.”
