A moving essay from
Slate:
I asked Peter to come along for my doctor’s appointment. Our primary
care doctor politely entertained our doubts about the value of
diagnosis. She heard out our pontifications about what we regarded as a
worthwhile quality of life, and let us stew our own way into following
her suggestion that I have an MRI. The scan results showed “white matter
lesions”—an indication of clogged microvessels that prevent blood from
reaching nearby brain areas. Dr. Eborn confirmed the Internet wisdom
that microvascular dementia might benefit from cholesterol- and blood
pressure-lowering medications to retard the clogging. However, a
neurologist would first have to confirm a connection between my memory
problems and the lesions.
One neurologist, one neuropsychologist, dozens of tests, and many
hundreds of out-of-pocket dollars later, my neurologist delivered the
D-word. Given how early I noticed my symptoms, she projected that two
more neurological evaluations at two-year intervals would be needed
before I would officially meet the criteria of dementia.
But in my heart I already knew:
I am dementing I am dementing I am dementing. (
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2 comments:
As the top comment on the article says, "This is my biggest fear." When my mother had Alzheimer's I thought, "At least I won't know what is going on if I get it." Now, I realize this is not true. So. Very. Scary. I am on a medication whose side effect is forgetting words. This does not make me any less panicky. I am in my 50s and it is, apparently, time to worry about such things.
Every person I have taken care of with dementia knows that they have it and it is very scary to them.
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