Dan’s voice held a note of warning. He was always like that, reminding his impatient wife to wait and see. Sometimes, like today, his accepting attitude was downright annoying.
A rebuke boiled up on her tongue but died away when the physician, looking young enough to be in high school, sailed into the room. In a crisp white lab coat and a blue tie, he carried a large brown envelope tucked beneath one arm. Frannie’s shamrock was squarely in place over his heart.
“Where’s Dr. Morrison?” Carrie asked, caught off guard and not at all comfortable with a green-behind-the-ears college boy. Dr. Morrison had cared for her family for fifteen years. He knew Frannie and all her idiosyncrasies. He would know if something was seriously wrong.
“Taking some time off. I’m Dr. Wilson.” He extended his hand, first to her and then to Dan. “And yes, I graduated from medical school. I’m not as young as I look.”
Mollified but a bit embarrassed, Carrie nodded stiffly.
“What’s wrong with my mother? Did she have a stroke?” Her stomach rumbled in memory of the half-eaten hamburger. Carrie pressed a hand to her midsection.
Dr. Wilson hitched the leg of his expertly creased slacks and perched on the edge of the gurney. The doctor gazed at Frannie standing next to him like a chubby green bird about to take flight. She winked at him. He smiled and turned his attention to Carrie. “I’ve already discussed my concerns with Ms. Adler—”
“Mother, why didn’t you just tell us?”
“Tell you what, honey?”
With a heavy, exasperated sigh to let Fran know she was annoyed, Carrie looked to the doctor for clarity. “What is it, Doctor?”
“I want to run some further tests and consult with a neurologist.”
Prickles rose on the back of Carrie’s neck. “A neurologist? For what?”
Frannie answered for him. “Alzheimer’s, honey. The doctor thinks I’m losing my mind.”
* * *
Three weeks and many clinic visits later Fran sat across the desk from a neurologist who looked as if he’d flavored his coffee with pickle juice.
Carrie sat next to her, face stony and pale as the doctor confirmed the diagnosis. She’d known he would. That’s why she hadn’t wanted Carrie to come, but here she was, shaking like a leaf and looking the way she had when she was ten and ate too many green blackberries. Sick and hollow-eyed.
Fran understood the feeling. She was feeling a little sick herself. Jittery, too. No one wanted to be told that she would eventually disappear into a fog and break her family’s hearts.
“Isn’t there a medicine for it?” Carrie’s fingers trembled as she pushed her hair behind one ear.
Of all the things Fran had dreaded about today, this was the worst, to know her family would suffer because of her, and there was so little she could do about it.
Dr. Pickle Juice made a few more comments, then excused himself and left. A nurse came in, smiling more than the doctor, and handed them both a card about the Alzheimer’s Association. Frannie gave her a Jesus Loves You smiley sticker, and slid the card into her I Love NY purse. She’d never been to New York, but she’d always wanted to go. Maybe she would do that now. Someday was no longer an option.
“I don’t know what to do,” Carrie said when they were alone.
Fran placed a hand on her daughter’s arm. “We do what we’ve always done. We put it in the Lord’s hands and trust Him.”
The look Carrie gave her said she didn’t buy that answer in the least.
* * *
The ugly diagnosis haunted Carrie day and night. She could think of little else. Mother’s casual attitude didn’t help, either. Carrie wondered if denial, nonchalance and a foolish determination to put a happy face on a devastating diagnosis were symptoms of the disease. An hour after they’d arrived home from the clinic Mother changed into a rhinestone cowboy hat and red boots and went to her weekly guitar lesson. How foolish was that?
Robby, Carrie’s brother, was no help. Though concerned, he lived in Michigan and couldn’t grasp the seriousness of the situation. He’d said Mom sounded fine to him when they’d spoken on the phone. She knew how he felt. Denial was easier than reality.
“Until now, I never even realized anything was wrong,” Carrie told Dan one night as they sat on the patio staring up at an April moon. The evening air was chilly so they huddled under a fleece throw. Instead of the usual romantic snuggle, the air hung heavy with Carrie’s worry. “She’s always been outrageous and silly. Who would notice if she forgot an appointment or repeated herself? I forgot to call the insurance company about that wind damage to the roof and there’s nothing wrong with me.”
She said the last as if it worried her, because it did.
“Everyone forgets things,” Dan agreed, his thick, calloused fingertips making lazy circles on her shoulder.
“The neurologist says she may not get bad for a long time. No one can really predict. In fact, he can’t even be one hundred percent sure she has Alzheimer’s disease. Mother keeps saying she’s fine, that she and God will beat this thing.”
“Your mom is a strong woman.”
Carrie made a little noise in the back of her throat. “You can say that again. No one ties down the irrepressible Frannie.”
No person could, but this ugly disease with a German name eventually would. Bile rose in the back of Carrie’s throat, as bitter as the feeling in her soul.
“I don’t understand God,” she muttered, gazing up at the marbled-cheese moon. She had grown up without a father, and now she was going to lose her mother in the most heinous manner. Where was God in any of that? “Old lady Smith across the street is a mean, bitter old hag who never contributes to anything and wouldn’t call 9-1-1 if you died in her living room. But she’s still sharp as a tack and making everyone miserable while a vibrant, giving woman like Mother is struck down in her prime. If there was any justice, Ms. Smith would get Alzheimer’s. Not Mother.”
Dan squeezed the side of her neck but said nothing. That was Dan. Sometimes she longed for him to hash things out with her, to argue or debate or just talk something into the ground, but he never did. No matter how big the problem, Dan kept his thoughts to himself. It was a wonder the man didn’t explode. She would have.
Especially now when she was angry and confused and depressed.
Mother’s life had never been easy. Only in the last few years had everything settled into a pleasant rhythm. Mother loved her job as church secretary. Her house, though only a small frame structure with two bedrooms, was paid for and she’d been saving money for another missions adventure, as she called them. This time to help with a Bible camp for orphans.
Yes, after all Mother had done for the Lord, Alzheimer’s disease was a lousy method of repayment.
Ken
