by Cyn Bagley

Created on: June 29, 2007   Last Updated: May 04, 2010

It was only a few years ago that I could read a page once and remember the contents, I knew where my keys were without resorting to memory aids, and I could remember my own name and names of my spouse, pets, and other significant family members. Today I have learned my limitations. But I sigh for those blissful days of high intelligence.

I know that I should be grateful. After all, my doctors saved me from death by recognizing that I had a rare disease and treating it. But, why did I have to have a disease that only responded to prednisone and cyclophosphamide? Why did I have a disease and treatment plan that messed with my mind?

Can I tell you a personal secret? I have always been proud of my I.Q. Yes, I had the satisfaction of knowing that my brain was one of those good models with a good memory attached. When I was in elementary school, my parents refused to tell me my I.Q. because they were afraid that I would become big-headed.

Now? My brain is mush.

Three weeks after coming home from my five week stint in the hospital, I turned over in bed, saw this stranger next to me, and started screaming. It took me about five minutes to realize that the strange man was my husband. It was what is commonly known as chemo-head or pred-head. Just another side-effect of the treatment.

About six months later, my husband had to direct me to take my pills, wash my hands, or use the bathroom. Countless times in the middle of Wal-Mart, I would jump up and down saying "Where's the bathroom? I need to go to the bathroom." Sometimes I wouldn't make it to the bathroom. I would be embarrassed as my husband ushered me quickly out of the store.

Or sometimes, I would think that I had overdosed on my pills. At the ER, the blood work showed that not only I had not overdosed, but I had not taken the pill that day. My husband had to explain to the ER doctor that no, I was not crazy and yes, I had to be on prednisone for my disease.

It was not until my prednisone and cychlophosphamide dosages were lowered that some of my brain function came back.

Even now, that I have changed medications to imuran and am on a lower dosage of prednisone, I still lose my keys. On average I spend thirty minutes frantically tearing my apartment apart, looking for missing items.

Maybe, you can relate.

Some days when I am so frustrated with my degraded abilities, I remember those first weeks in the hospital. I was in Germany. My doctors were trying to find the cause of my kidney failure. I was plugged into a machine for plasmapheresis. I was cold and miserable. I burst into tears.

Right then, the head nephrologist walked into the room. He was a thin white-haired German, dressed in a white coat.

He did not stop. He did not turn away. He was not embarrassed by my tears. He took my hand and in a deep baritone sang, "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." I was astonished. My tears stopped.

He kissed my cheek and said, "We will find it." He did. This doctor diagnosed me with vasculitis.

So whenever I feel desperate, I remember my dignified doctor, head of an entire nephrology training department, bursting into song. I remember that I have a team who cares about my health, about my healing. And, I smile.

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