Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [32]
I shake my head. “When we came in you said she seemed fine.”
“Well, it could be worse.”
Pete starts what I imagine is his stock speech to family members of dementia sufferers. He tells me that Alzheimer’s is the most common form of dementia, affecting more than four million Americans. The disease results in memory loss, personality changes, cognitive dysfunction, then physical dependence. I know this stuff, and I wave him along.
He reminds me there are four stages: predementia, and then early, moderate, and advanced versions. Common complications include dementia coupled with Parkinson’s; vascular dementia, which largely afflicts African Americans; and frontotemporal dementia, which presents with major mood affect.
“She’s probably in an early or moderate stage,” he says. “The good news is, this is very common, and we have some sense of how to treat it, though our treatments are primitive or, rather, of modest efficacy.”
He’s starting to wind down his presentation, just as I’m feeling a rising sense of ire mixed with disbelief.
“Bullshit,” I say with some force, seeming to surprise him, and myself.
What I realize I’m thinking is that Grandma’s symptoms don’t seem common at all. If my own memory of neurological disorders serves even a little, these symptoms don’t add up. Ordinarily, a sharp mental descent would be accompanied by a loss in physical agility and alertness. More significantly, it makes no sense to me that her mental decline has been so precipitous. I’m bothered with myself that I haven’t been paying closer attention in the last month or two.
“When did you see Lane last?” I ask.
“Pardon?”
“When was her last visit here—three, four months ago?”
He walks to his desk. He picks up a green folder, opens and studies the chart inside. “Three,” he says, then corrects himself. “Sorry, four.”
“It just doesn’t make sense to me that as recently as four months ago she was doing relatively well, making sense, and conversation.”
“Suggesting what?” he asks.
“Something odd is going on. This doesn’t seem typical to me at all.”
“Respectfully, Nat, the Internet is not the best place to get medical information,” he says. “Dementia and memory loss can be very hard for family members to accept.”
He maintains eye contact with me, which makes me think he either doesn’t realize he’s being condescending or doesn’t mind it. I break our gaze, almost imperceptibly bowing my head.
“What do you suggest?”
“Let’s get her on some Aricept,” he says. He pauses. “She lives where?” he asks.
“Magnolia Manor.”
He nods. “Can you give her a break from there for a few days? Can she get some time to change her environment? She could use the stimulation of activity. She certainly seems curious and physically able.” He turns to her. “Don’t you Lane?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” she responds.
I decide it’s not the time to tell doc I’m already on the change-of-venue case.
I’m not sure he’s offering us better advice than I could’ve gotten on the Internet. He’s prescribing pills and a change to her environment. Still, at least now I have justification for keeping Lane with me. Doctor’s orders.
Pete looks at his watch. He says he should get to his next appointment. In parting, he tells me he’d like to see my grandmother again in a week.
“But call me tomorrow and give me an update.” He hands me a card with his cell phone number.
At a modest dining room in the basement, I ask Grandma what kind of sandwich she wants. Before she can answer, a woman behind the counter wearing her pink dyed hair in a tight bun informs me that she doesn’t have sandwiches but, rather, panini or flatbread.
“Can’t I just call it a sandwich?” I ask. “She was born before the advance of the panini.”
“Don’t talk about me when I’m standing right here,” Grandma says.
I order a flatbread with tuna for Grandma and, for me, panini with chicken and pesto sauce—the chief difference between these items and sandwiches being price. Sixteen dollars later, I help Grandma into the car. We have ninety minutes to kill before