by Linda Joyce

Created on: January 06, 2009

By the time we recognized it wasn't just a matter of aging but something far more serious, we had been working around Dad's harmless forgetfulness for the past two or three years. We had gotten used to it and merely smiled at each other and filled in the blanks in his stories.

How many times had I admitted that my own memory was burnt out, that I had a mind like a sieve? My sister and brother laughed and agreed that they were getting there, too. We were all in our middle years and had each begun to notice painful little manifestations of the aging process in ourselves; but in Dad, we were beginning to suspect that it was something more.

Mom is alone with Dad most of the time now. They live in a neat, well-kept mid-rise apartment building with other elderly tenants in a small suburb of Philadelphia. I make it a point to speak to them by phone a few times a week, and I also visit several times a year. It's not as easy for Peter and Angie because they both live so far away, but they do what they can.

For the past year, Mom has been relating stories over the telephone that I hear with increasing dread. At first, they were just tales of how he misplaced his car keys and couldn't find them all afternoon and got angry.

"Well, who hasn't done that, Mom?" I asked.

Another time, she told me how he forgot where he parked the car, a bit more of a problem since their building is sandwiched in between two large parking lots.

One day, a few months later, Angie called to ask if Mom had told me yet that Dad had been accusing her of stealing his wallet.

"No way!" I cried, unwilling to believe such a story.

"And she says he's suddenly become very secretive." I could hear the anguish in her voice, which scared me even more. "What's more, she said he gets this sly look on his face and she feels like she doesn't even know him anymore."

"What are we going to do?"

No one had yet mentioned the accursed word, the name of the disease that causes fear and trepidation in the hearts of families whose loved one falls victim to it.

The rounds to various doctors for neurological examinations and psychological testing began. The doctors mentioned tangles and plaques in the brain and other technical jargon that we barely heard, let alone understood; although, at that point we knew we would soon become much more familiar with it.

I took Mom to gamble in Atlantic City one day to give her a break in her grueling daily routine. She had to get some time away from him at least a few times a week

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