Think Positive

Hearing the Worst^R9

Lois Wilmoth-Bennett

Sue and I sped along the highway at seventy-five miles per hour as we began our climb up the curving mountainous roadway where North Carolina intersects with the southern border of Virginia. Sue, my youngest daughter, also a mother and grandmother, is a young-at-heart fifty-year-old widow. I suppose she could be identified as a "tweener"—between me and her younger family—since I've often asked her to drive me long distances or to do other things I can't or don't want to do for myself.

The more politically correct term, I suppose, is that Sue is now a member of "The Sandwich Generation." These young to middle-age men and women are still raising their families, even if they are mostly grown, and suddenly they find themselves also responsible for their aging parents and must add additional responsibilities to an already busy lifestyle.

I leaned back in my seat and enjoyed the luxury of the comfortable ride, while taking in the sunshine and scenery so different from that in Florida. I had to admit there were times when I longed to see the mountains and rolling hills, and missed the colors of the changing seasons. Still, Florida had been a good place for me to live after retirement and while caring for my aging mother—except in situations such as this when my son developed a potentially serious medical problem. I was happy that my daughter had been willing and able to transport me to see him through surgery. It was a free trip for her, too, a chance to visit with old friends and other family members.

As we entered Virginia, the trees and valleys glistened ever more brightly with deepening shades of green reflecting the sunlight of late spring. One of the most beautiful spots along the ascending highway featured a vertical drop to picturesque valleys on the right, looking over many miles of neatly manicured farmland dotted with white buildings of civilization. On our left were even steeper cliffs rising skyward with trickles of running water, jutting rocks with mossy patches and scattered growth of new plant life highlighting the incline of the mountain. Occasionally, small piles of rock and dirt had broken loose from their moorings and lay as evidence of man's failed attempt to conquer the hilly terrain.

I twisted my body to the right in my seat, trying to find the mountain with the "bite" taken out of the top. I assumed it was a "man-made" bite to make way for utilities and other signs of civilization, but it had become a game for my family, looking for the sign that we were approaching the area where Uncle Charlie used to live.

It was April 28, 2009, a day I should not forget—but for how long would I truly be able to remember it?

My cell phone rang, breaking the tranquility of the pleasant scene. I glanced at the caller ID and answered with a degree of trepidation. I had been waiting for this particular call.

"Hello, Ms. Bennett," the cheery voice said. "This is Annette in Dr. Jay's office. He wants you to know that your PET scan results are in. They're consistent with Alzheimer's disease."

I gasped! No friendly word foreplay to break the ice or soften the blow—just the dreaded diagnosis—one which I expected but dreaded nonetheless. I had even asked to have the PET scan (an imaging technique—positron emission tomography—producing three-dimensional images of a body process) done.

"He wants you to start taking Aricept right away," the caller added. "I'll call in a prescription for you. You have a good day now, you hear." And just as quickly, she was gone.

I closed the cell phone, put it back in my purse, and said nothing, just stared at the scenery, which had lost some of its magical luster.

"Who was that?" Sue questioned.

"Just someone at the doctor's office," I replied, trying to show at least a half-smile.

"She's calling the pharmacy with a prescription for some of my memory problems."

Sue turned her head toward me and started to speak.

I placed my hand on my daughter's arm, stopping her before she could question me further.

"Better keep your eyes on the road, sweetie. This road is really curvy—and steep. Looks like those clouds are dropping right on top of us."

I was not ready to share my diagnosis with family or anyone else at this time even though nothing had really changed—it had just become formal—no longer a suspicion, but now a reality.

Had I been driving, my thoughts could easily have led me down a dangerous path. The callousness and lack of empathy with which the news was delivered sent chills racing up and down my spine as my eyes strayed to the steep descent to the valley below. For a split second I wondered if I'd be better off just to leave the highway and sail through the air and trees and brush to my ultimate fate, rather than spending years dependent on others and living in the foggy mental state that surely lay before me.

But reason prevailed and in that instant, I made a major decision.

I will not become a victim. I will take each day as it comes and deal with it. Beyond that, it's out of my hands. But, I will never consider myself just a number or a victim—I'll do what I can to try to slow the process down, but never, ever will I be a victim.

(964 words)