Lucid moments

Today, when I saw Ed at the facility where he lives, he was extremely lucid; and it was very painful for both of us. The first thing he said to me was that he felt as though he were in another world.  He told me he didn’t want to be around people with his disease (he doesn’t remember that it’s called “Alzheimer’s.”)  He said he just wanted to hide.

Ed was diagnosed almost twelve years ago and his ability to still recognize and articulate his pain is amazing to me.

I told him that I was working hard and doing what I could to help people understand Alzheimer’s;  that a lot of great research is being done in an effort to find treatments. His answer: “That takes a lot of time and is very costly. I want to be able to function now.”

I don’t think there are many advanced AD sufferers who are able to describe their feelings as well as Ed does—but that doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re not feeling what Ed is.  Some people have asked me if I think it’s harder for the caregiver than for the person who has AD, because the person with Alzheimer’s must be unaware of his or her condition.   In many ways, I wish that were true; on the other hand, as difficult as today’s conversation with Ed was, it was a real conversation between two thinking—and loving—people.