View of the Adirondacks from Dannemora Mountain

This is a true story
All images are the real places the boy experiences

For Part One follow this link

He crawls out of the ditch and into the trees, getting all scratched. The pain is no big deal. Once behind a big pine tree, he starts running, slipping a hand into his right pocket. Yes! The rubber band is still there. But suddenly he stops, and looks down at his black leather shoes. No longer polished, they’ve gotten all scratched up and dirty. His heart pounds in fear, and his stomach gets all knotted. He flashes back to Plattsburgh again, where Dad said he had a secret job at the Air Force Base. The black shoes then had also been way too tight, warping his toes. It had hurt so much. And when he one day came home from school, to hesitantly and with great fear tell Mom about the hole in one of the shoes, she locked him into the room on Sally Avenue. When he heard the tires of Dad’s car make the pebbles groan, he crawled over to the corner, put his head to his knees, wrapped his arms around his legs... and rocked, and rocked, and rocked... praying to some image of God that Dad would know he was a good boy. And when he heard Dad and Mom talk Danish in the kitchen, he knew what was coming. But he kept praying. Maybe St. John the Bosco would chase away the devil that can come from dark clouds. Maybe he could write another note, asking for help, and slip it under the statue in the church, with all the little red candles flickering, and that sweet smell of wood polish and incense. But he wasn’t at church.

Suddenly he hears a horrible loud sound up the mountain. He knows it is the siren from the big prison. The nuns had said that it only went off when a prisoner was escaping. He’s never heard it before. It slowly rises in pitch, and then gets lower in pitch until it throatily groans again, only to then begin again. Many times. Such a horrible sound, and he guesses why. The police and guards are looking for him. Everybody is looking for him.

Please, Mother Mary, don’t let anyone find me.

He feels free and alive in a way he’s never before felt. He runs and skips as he comes upon a logging trail through the woods, going in the right direction, west. He is free in the woods, and no one is going to find him. EVER. The trees aren’t too close together by this trail, except for some of the bushes that reach out with burrs that stick to his sweater and socks. They hurt his fingers to get off. The crows cawing in the trees above are talking to each other gently and peacefully, not in warning bursts. Wow. This is nature and true life. Freedom. And the chickadees. Chick a dee dee deee. They sing their own name. A woodpecker off in the distance, hammers away on a tree trunk. The sun above. Wow! He feels so free.

Suddenly something about the logging trail begins to look... terrifyingly familiar. He knows that the two dips in the grassy shrubby road is taking him west, since the sun was going down that way. He stops every few hundred feet. Stops totally still and opens his mouth. That’s how he can better hear. No. It’s only animals and nature sounds, like the breeze that has begun to pick up a bit, bringing an unexpected chill to his skin. He keeps walking. So many scents come to his nose. But fear gnaws at his stomach, just beneath racing thoughts of freedom. What if someone came walking towards him from around a bend? How would he jump behind a tree fast enough? He must move forward, and stop every once in a while, to listen for the sound of a car or the footsteps of men. That way no one can sneak up on him. To blindly run forward would be dangerous.

The woods alongside the road have grown really thick and wild; not like back by the big road down to Saranac.

Up ahead he sees something that looks like a clearing. He moves away from the path and into the woodland a bit, following parallel with the tire-grooved road, maybe 30 feet in. And comes upon the railroad tracks that end at the old abandoned mine up the mountain. He wants to explore that mine. But then he’d have to go by houses and cross roads. He reasons it is best not to follow these rusty disused tracks with small trees poking up from the crushed stone. He looks up, from where the brown rails curve towards the west. Walking back to the logging road by where it crosses the tracks and getting the strong whiff of creosol, he sees another clearing to the west, and again a huge fear erupts from his gut. Too many painful thoughts crash against each other in his mind.

How had he not seen this earlier? Dad had driven him down here more than once. Sometimes with Agnes and Mom, but often without. The clearing offers him a splendid view of greenish-blue mountains rising high. The big one by where the golden orb almost touched it probably was Lyon Mountain. Couldn’t be sure. He’d gone towards it once before, sitting on the seat and hugging the passenger side as best he could to keep some distance from Dad, but without trying to act like he was pushing against the door. He had noticed that Agnes did that a lot too when in that seat; to avert the blows that always came out of the blue. One time, or was it twice... she had accidentally opened the door and fallen out. Luckily, the car had not been going too fast, and she only bled from skinned knees and hands. Dad had exploded in fury at her for that. Her crying then had escalated, and she kept getting hit and being screamed at. Then he got hit and yelled at for wrapping his arms around her. “Pervert!” he screamed. Had that been in Plattsburgh? Or on the way back from Montreal? Or by ferry to the other side of the lake, and into that invitingly mysterious state called Vermont.

He’d gone to Vermont a few times alone with Dad. Suddenly, he cringed. And it wasn’t just because the air had gotten chillier. It was the memory of that last trip to Vermont, to some Catholic retreat place. It always began like an adventure... off to distant places, like that Christopher Columbus the big nun had described with a devotional sparkle in her eyes, just a couple of weeks ago when they were to have a day off. She said he’d discovered America for the holy Pope in Rome, and had saved so many souls. It was so weird that he knew... just knew this was wrong. But that night in the hotel room. Oh no... too much. Mustn’t think about that. It was horrible, trying not to evoke any anger from Dad, try to appease him... at least until he could close his eyes. And then came that warm ocean of lights and spinning shapes... and he felt again from memories that repeated themselves in so many places and times that it could be confusing but it wasn’t. It was crystal clear, and again longed for going to that place, to where his body would get all numb... which sometimes felt like maybe he was going to heaven... and... leaving by a thin thread to a corner high up... wanting to stay there forever... but then getting scared because maybe it was purgatory... and trying hard to move a thumb from so far away ... was he even breathing....?

Got to keep walking. Past that clearing. It was this exact clearing at the end of the logging road. That’s where Dad had made him lie down over the hump of the backseat floor, the day after he’d been interrogated about that white powder. Dad had told him not to move or peek, as he threw a stinky thick blanket, a sort of rug, over him. The car went this way, then that way. He could feel the curves, and the rumble of the motor as it went uphill, and the whine of the gears as it coasted downhill, until he could hear the wheels driving on dirt and grass, because the grass and thin branches rubbed against the floor of the car, underneath, and sometimes hissed on the muffler. And then the car stopped, the engine shut off, and he could hear Dad’s breathing grow tense, and could hear the pinging of hot metal cooling. He felt so smart in being able to know all these things. And he again sought that place of warm chaos, of lights and swirling patterns that only existed there, except sometimes when he lay under a tree, and fell into the patterns of branches and leaves swaying in a mild summer breeze with the blue sky and white clouds passing by... but that was in Pointes-aux-Trembles, on the other side of the Bocage...

He slowly walks through the clearing to where the road went left, down, which is not where he wants to go. Caught on a wire fence with a strand of barbed wire at the top, he sees some brown fur. He looks at it up close. It could be a bear. He slips a hand into a pocket. The rubber band feels good. But he still hadn’t found a good enough forked branch to make the slingshot which would keep bears away and bring down a deer or rabbit to eat.

And that’s when he hears it. The barking of a dog in pursuit. It sounds like a big dog. That meant people are chasing him.

He climbs over the fence by where a small tree seems to grow into it, very careful not to tear his pants. Dad would be very angry. More angry than whenever he accidentally said something in French. But up in Montreal, Dad got angry when he accidentally said Far instead of Papa. So mad that spit blew out of Dad’s mouth.

He runs fast to the west again, and the trees close in to block the view of those huge mountains he seeks. Sweating, the chill leaves him, but the pine tree branches at the bottom reach out and scratch. There are no pine needles on them, almost like they are dead, but their tips are sharp. He has to get away from the dog, or maybe there are two. Or lots of them. It’s hard to figure out. He keeps running around all sorts of trees and bushes.

He stops to look up, to find the sun and go west towards Lyon Mountain. He can’t see it anymore. He has to get free and away from the dogs. He has to find that mountainside stream that sits so strong in his thinking, to then build a cabin with a roaring fire blazing from the stone fireplace to keep out the cold winter, find the girl who would love him, and whom he would love, and all else would fall into place, just like in that Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale, which Mormor, had sent him from Denmark for a Christmas gift. He barely remembers grandma, but remembers the big Great Dane, Dan, whom he loved so much as he stood tall to hug, and it kissed him with its wet tongue. Dan was such a big towering black dog, but oh so gentle.

The sunlight grows ever weaker as it streams through a lot of trees, making shadows that merge into each other. It is surely setting, down towards the mountain that he no longer can see to the west. So he keeps running. The dogs -- there are at least three of them -- seem to still be far away but closing in. Hunger and thirst suddenly hit him

No, they are not going to find him. Ever.

Time passes in that alone way he is all too used to. Except that the long shadows of trees are now melting into a deep darkness all too quickly. What if a puma or bear lurks behind the next tree? And the baying of the dogs are approaching much too fast. He has to keep running, but the branches reach out from the growing darkness, and strike him unexpectedly. Every sound suddenly begins to feel threatening. He keeps chasing away images of demons from the comic books Dad has given him. Prayers fly from his heart with every beat, but offer no comfort.

It seems the dogs are just behind him, so loud their baying has grown in such a short time. But time is weird now, for it has grown very dark much too fast, it seems. As he stumbles over some boulders with gnarly roots of trees growing up from them, he comes to the shadowy presence of a very large, broad pine tree. This is the answer.

Ignoring the clawing branches, he quickly ascends one branch after the other, in a way he’s never done before. Up and up he climbs, the redolence of pine caressing his nose, until he arrives to where the trunk divides into two very thick branches. Ignoring the sticky gum on his hands and clothes, he looks below into a profound darkness, and sees the waving of flashlights in the distance. Some are yelling out his name. One of these lights comes right towards the tree trunk below. And he sees a dark dog in that beam of light. It is now silent, but the man with the flashlight makes a lot of noise through the thicket. He can even hear his heavy breathing, and it sounds threatening.

When the man shouts out his name, he feels his heart instantly thump hard, and is so worried that the dog below will hear that.

He curls himself into a familiar ball within the cradle of the two branches, wrapping his arms around his chest and head, and closes his eyes, doing all he can to hold his heart quiet and breathe very slowly through his mouth. The pounding of his heart is like the drumming of some music Dad had forbidden him to listen to. He liked that rhythm, and it wasn’t his fault that a car had driven by with its windows open as the radio played.

He hears the dog and man walking around the base of the tree, and hears also the sharp crackling of his walkie talkie, but didn’t understand what was being said. Opening an eye slightly, he sees the beam of the man’s flashlight reach up towards him, exposing the wide evergreen branches. He is sure he’ll be found.

The shouting of the men in the distance ebbs away, and the man with the dog below then begins to crash through the underbrush, away from his tree and towards them, into the darkness. And off in that dark distance, he sees a single stationary spot of light, and guesses it to be either a streetlight or a house.

He is alone again, as high as he’d ever been in a tree. Never before has he felt so proud of himself. He’d evaded all those men and their dogs. He begins rocking himself as best he can within the uncomfortable cradle of branches and bark, hears himself humming, and feels an overwhelming and peaceful tiredness spread through his body. It has grown cold, he notices, and above he sees no stars or the moon. He then presses his thumbs lightly into his closed eyes, and gets the hoped for result. Flashes of colored light and swirling geometric shapes dance, and slowly merge with that deeper place, where all aches in his body depart. It is again like sinking into an embracing warm fluid, and then rising up through a very thin thread that still connects him to his body, for he can make a thumb move by thinking about it. And then warm darkness soothes each racing thought of hunger, thirst, cold, demons, bears, pumas, Dad, Mom, God, angels, nuns, priests, bullies, sin, heaven, hell, a cabin in the woods, making electricity, making friends, learning about how everything works...

This ends Part 2 of 3

Below are scientific and therapeutic help links for further reading

Understanding the Effects of Maltreatment on Brain Development (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services)
Abstract: In recent years, there has been a surge of research into early brain development. Neuroimaging technologies, such as magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), provide increased insight about how the brain develops and how early experiences affect that development. One area that has been receiving increasing research attention involves the effects of abuse and neglect on the developing brain, especially during infancy and early childhood. Much of this research is providing biological explanations for what practitioners have long been describing in psychological, emotional, and behavioral terms. There is now scientific evidence of altered brain functioning as a result of early abuse and neglect. This emerging body of knowledge has many implications for the prevention and treatment of child abuse and neglect

Dissociation FAQ’s - International Society for the Study of Trauma and Dissociation
Dissociation is a word that is used to describe the disconnection or lack of connection between things usually associated with each other. Dissociated experiences are not integrated into the usual sense of self, resulting in discontinuities in conscious awareness (Anderson & Alexander, 1996; Frey, 2001; International Society for the Study of Dissociation, 2002; Maldonado, Butler, & Spiegel, 2002; Pascuzzi & Weber, 1997; Rauschenberger & Lynn, 1995; Simeon et al., 2001; Spiegel & Cardeña, 1991; Steinberg et al., 1990, 1993). In severe forms of dissociation, disconnection occurs in the usually integrated functions of consciousness, memory, identity, or perception. For example, someone may think about an event that was tremendously upsetting yet have no feelings about it. Clinically, this is termed emotional numbing, one of the hallmarks of post-traumatic stress disorder. Dissociation is a psychological process commonly found in persons seeking mental health treatment (Maldonado et al., 2002).

OUT OF THE FOG - Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD)
Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) is a condition that results from chronic or long-term exposure to emotional trauma over which a victim has little or no control and from which there is little or no hope of escape, such as in cases of domestic emotional, physical or sexual abuse; childhood emotional, physical or sexual abuse; entrapment or kidnapping; slavery or enforced labor; long term imprisonment and torture; repeated violations of personal boundaries; long-term objectification; exposure to gaslighting & false accusations; long-term exposure to inconsistent, push-pull,splitting or alternating raging & hooveringbehaviors; long-term taking care of mentally ill or chronically sick family members; long term exposure to crisis conditions...

Religion Exploits Normal Human Mental Processes
Because the child’s mind is uniquely susceptible to religious ideas, religious indoctrination particularly targets vulnerable young children. Cognitive development before age seven lacks abstract reasoning. Thinking is magical and primitive, black and white. Also, young humans are wired to obey authority because they are dependent on their caregivers just for survival. Much of their brain growth and development has to happen after birth, which means that children are extremely vulnerable to environmental influences in the first few years when neuronal pathways are formed...

Religious Abuse
Religiously-based psychological abuse of children can involve using teachings to subjugate children through fear, or indoctrinating the child in the beliefs of their particular religion whilst suppressing other perspectives. Psychologist Jill Mytton describes this as crushing the child's chance to form a personal morality and belief system; it makes them utterly reliant on their religion and/or parents, and they never learn to reflect critically on information they receive. Similarly, the use of fear and a judgmental environment (such as the concept of Hell) to control the child can be traumatic.

National Center for PTSD - Treating C-PTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder)
Many traumatic events (e.g., car accidents, natural disasters, etc.) are of time-limited duration. However, in some cases people experience chronic trauma that continues or repeats for months or years at a time. The current PTSD diagnosis often does not fully capture the severe psychological harm that occurs with prolonged, repeated trauma. People who experience chronic trauma often report additional symptoms alongside formal PTSD symptoms, such as changes in their self-concept and the way they adapt to stressful events.

How to Choose a Therapist for Post-Traumatic Stress and Dissociative Conditions - Sidran Institute
One of the primary roles of Sidran Institute’s Help Desk is to assist people who have been traumatized in finding various kinds of help. “Treatment” is usually sought when the behavioral adaptations (usually called “symptoms”) typical of trauma survivors become disabling, interfering with work, home life, recreation, sleep, parenting, and other aspects of daily function. Our aim is not only to help people feel better and function better, but also to help them learn to be informed and empowered consumers in general and consumers of mental health services, in particular. We hope trauma survivors find that taking appropriate and well-considered action to improve one’s life is made a little easier by the information on this page.

If you are currently in crisis: The process of choosing a helpful therapist takes some time, thought, and focus. If you are currently in a crisis, or are worried that you might hurt or kill yourself or someone else, please contact your community’s mental health center, hospital emergency room, or a hotline. Here are some hotline numbers that might be useful:National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK
National Domestic Violence/Child Abuse/Sexual Abuse: 1-800-799-SAFE
National Youth Crisis Hotline: 800-442-HOPE

When the crisis has passed, this brochure will help you organize the task of finding a therapist for ongoing treatment...

King Cecil, Leo, lionized,

We bemoan what befell ye.

'Twould best thee be cryogenized –

From yon we might consult thee.

We knew not of thy royal self

Until thy jungle slaughter.

The rapid descent in thy health

Brought on a new world order.

The cruelty employed in thy case

Was shocking to our senses.

Thus, we reacted with much haste

And with such recompenses.

Damn the cowards in this drama!

To them's our ire directed.

Though thy name it be Obama,

We'd be no less affected.

For, thy departure from this earth,

So sudden and so heartless,

Has left an empty royal berth

Within the jungle-smart class.

If, to others, this seem maudlin;

Those who vegans call themselves;

Those who say we deal in fraud in

Our pretense at forest elves;

Those who say, With other creatures;

"Other" is our appetite;

They know naught of menu features –

Steak that melts with just one bite;

Fricassees that are to die for;

Duck, with all the fat well drained;

Giblet gravies you and I pour

O'er tissue deftly debrained!

Hypocrites, call us, if you must;

But, there is a distinction.

The big difference in all this fuss:

Steers do not fear extinction!

Black and White is a beautiful thing.

Here we are again, fighting among ourselves about race. Black people are angry. White people are angry. The president who is supposed to LEAD has exposed himself as clearly in favor of White Supremacy. We had a half Black, half White president and some people lost their minds because he wasn't all White. Aren't we tired of fighting among ourselves? I certainly am. It wasn't bad enough that we fought a civil war about Slavery (and yes the Civil War was about Slavery).  How long are we going to label each other and argue about what we look like? Beauty is skin deep and skin comes in so many glorious colors and shades. This is nothing new and yes, it has been going on for millennium which is exactly why it’s absurd we haven’t stopped fighting about it.

Can you tell the race, religion, skin color of the mother and child below? No. You can't. Because it doesn't matter. What we see below is what we are all made of, that's all. A woman is embracing her child, placing delicate kisses on its tiny forehead and smelling the child’s unique scent. Does this woman live in America, Africa, China, or India? Does it matter? The lives we live, the deeds we do, the words we speak are what matter. What makes me different from you is how I treat you and how you treat me. When we cut ourselves the blood is the same color. When our heart pounds, it is the same color.

In 2007 I actually thought we entered the 21st Modern Century where we had science help us understand what was important and what wasn't. It appeared to me that we were progressing (slowly, but progressing) and could concentrate on what mattered, jobs and education and our environment but apparently, I had been living in a bubble. We have millions of refugees looking for safety , the world is literally on fire due to Global Warming and the poles are melting, we've been at war for 16 years (world war according to the King of Jordan), and 2 man/children are seriously thinking we can have 'limited nuclear war'. So please, let's argue about the color of our skin because it really makes a difference.

Charlottesville 2017,  Fergusson 2014,  Detroit 1967, Trail of Tears 1830, Aragon 1492, England 1290,  and Egypt 1208 BCE. Do I need to list more? How many will be enough for us to get it? 2? 8? 20? We have societal events that send us loud messages of cultural and social issues but we ignore the reasons why. Instead we tell ourselves, “It’s just the way humans are and always have been.” While this may seem to justify our strife and conflict, let us also think of other things that we used to ‘always be’. We used to always think women had no rights. We used to think that throwing our bodily fluids out the window into the streets below was acceptable. We used to think putting people in dungeons and torturing them was acceptable. We used to think bloodletting was an acceptable form of medicine. We used to think watching people kill each other in open forums was sport. We used to think the world was flat. We used to think kings were all wise and powerful. We are capable of change. We can do it again.

White to Black and the shades in between, nothing to be afraid of.

Heaven forbid we should reach out and help one another instead of point fingers at each other. "Well, if everyone had voted for my candidate we wouldn't have this problem." As if one person could solve generations of cultural abuses. "If everyone followed my religion the world would be fine?" Really? How many wars have been fought and are still being fought over religious differences?

Labels? We got a million! Democrat. Christian. Muslim. Immigrant. Feminist. Conservative. Alt-right (and now Alt-left) Why? So we can define who the others are? Has it occurred to us that to someone else WE are the 'others'? To someone else WE are the enemy. And why? Because we don't fit their narrative.

A friend asked social media, "Why can't we just get along?" Yet this same friend won't compromise on her own political beliefs. I have seen this sentiment a lot in the past week, "We need to get a long." yet many won't compromise or bend on 'their values'- they expect everyone else to compromise, but not them. Does this sound familiar?

Don't talk about peace if you aren’t willing to change your own behavior. Don't talk about getting along if you aren’t willing to let go of your own ego. There are 7.5 billion living on Earth at the moment, we are all going to have to compromise. And yet, there is hope... Women the world over marched peacefully earlier this year. “An estimated 3,300,000 – 4,600,000 people participated in the United States and up to 5 million did worldwide.”  AND “Thousands of counterdemonstrators marched Saturday in downtown Boston in a largely peaceful response to a self-described free speech rally that had sparked concerns of possible violence.”

We can be better people. We prove it over and over. Let’s keep striving to be the better people we know we are and not excuse ourselves from trying because: ‘Well, what about that guy/gal over there who is full of hate? He/she won’t change.” Maybe not, not in your lifetime, but maybe they will. People change. Societies change. It happens by more and more people talking, acting, discussing, reaching out and altering their own behaviors.

There have been new discoveries in the Alzheimer's world in the past couple of years, encouraging and exciting discoveries, maybe the aging generation of today may not have to suffer the terrible plight of Alzheimer's and dementia. It may not be a part of your life now but at the moment it is projected to be one of the top 5 illnesses of seniors, ahead of heart disease. There are many horrible illnesses that affect humans but this is one of the worst in my mind because you die before your body does. Hopefully, the cure is just on the horizon. The following is my own personal journey through the Mordor of Alzheimer's. It is mine and does not reflect anyone else's. The symptoms and conditions of the disease can affect others in different ways, emotionally and physically. Some people and caregivers are more able to cope than others. I do not judge those that determine 24 hour facilities are right or those that choose to work and hire in-home help or stay home to care for a loved one. The variables change from family to family. The solutions one family chooses are not superior to another's. We choose the path that is right for us. Maybe you are at the beginning of the journey, in the middle or you know someone who is, I hope that you take away from this how wide path the Alzheimer's takes and it is not just the patient who suffers but all of those in their life become affected. I hope you take away the challenges caregivers face and that you understand the urgency for a cure.

It's been a few years since my husband passed away. Many times my family has said to me, "You should write about it, Mom.", but I haven't been ready. I wanted to leave it alone, not even think about it. When I see someone with it my heart fills with sadness and compassion for the whole family. This isn't a Nicholas Sparks novel and there is a spoiler alert- the story doesn't end well. One of the main characters dies and the other barely makes it out. Proceed if you will, but you have been warned. Why would I warn you at the beginning of the story? Because that's how it was. I knew the story's end from the beginning and I lived with the knowledge every day. My husband had Alzheimer's and he died from Alzheimer's. Many people think that Alzheimer's victims die of 'other causes', like pneumonia. No, they die because of the disease, it causes death by shutting off the brain one piece at a time. Imagine a tall skyscraper at night, all the windows lit in the offices, black skyline, no moon, and one by one, at first, the lights are turned off. Slowly, lights go out and the windows becomes dark. You think, that's not too bad, there is still light in other places I can just work in another place. As time goes by whole floors will go out all at once. Then you have to adapt again until ultimately and mercifully the entire building of lights goes black. You may think that sounds cruel, "mercifully the entire building of lights goes black" but that's the reality. I am not going to tell the usual Alzheimer's story of how sweet the patient was and how patient and devoted the caregiver. That would be a lie and if we want to understand the disease we need to be honest and the people involved need to understand the plight of the patient and the family. When you hear the diagnosis you think, "I can handle this. I'm tough." You have no idea how wrong you are and how devastating the disease.

Let me begin before the desolation. My husband was an intelligent, creative, thoughtful and funny man. He was the engineering director of the second largest printing company in the world with a staff of 75 people. I would meet his employees or their spouses in public places like the grocery store and they would say things to me like, "Your husband is the best boss I ever had." Or "Your husband is so helpful." He was fair and friendly and had the ability to find a person's strengths and bring that out for the benefit of the employee and the facility. While he was in charge there were zero accidents. He knew how to motivate people and people liked him. Then small, curious and seemingly insignificant things started happening and didn't make sense until years later when they were put together, the puzzle was complete- the disease had begun hacking away at his brain for at least 10 years, silently and insidiously. He lost his job because he started to miss things, forget meeting times, or misplace tools. We wondered why and we started going to doctors to see if something was wrong. There were no answers. He begin to accept lessor jobs because doctors would suggest, "It's stress. He needs to work at a job with less stress." In tandem with the unknown plaques inflicting damage on his brain the demon of undiagnosed PTSD and memories from his time at an EVAC hospital in Viet Nam begin to emerge. After many doctors and a couple of psychologists, one young doctor noticed on his chart that he was a veteran. "Have you tried the VA? I think they may be a better place for you."

Sure enough during the first visit the doctor diagnosed Delayed Onset PTSD. The doctor handed me a paper with 12 symptoms of PTSD and as I read it I thought, "This guy has been living in our home!" It fit to a tee. We were actually relieved because now we knew what we were dealing with and it is always easier to deal with something when you know the diagnosis. Or so I thought. The journey was just beginning and it was the springtime of the illness with no inkling of the severe winter ahead. There were prescriptions and meetings and counseling and therapy and group sessions things seemed fine and livable. We lived tolerably well for about 8 years until the return trip from a vacation. As I was driving in the car with 8 hours left to go until we were home my husband tapped my arm and asked me, "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"No, of course not." It was odd but I went with it and then he asked this next question and I knew something was horribly wrong and I still remember it like it was yesterday, in our car, driving through the desolate land of Nevada, in the late afternoon. He said, "I'm kind of embarrassed but..... What's your name and where am I?" and then he chuckled a bit like someone who is self-conscious about committing an error. My throat went dry, my stomach churned and I started to panic- I knew he wasn't joking. I knew that he truly did not know who I was, did not know that he had children, did not know where he lived- nothing. It was like he had complete amnesia. For the rest of the trip I told him about his life and he kept saying, "Well, imagine that." As if he was hearing it all for the first time. The next morning when we woke up in our home I asked him if he knew where he was and he looked at me as if I had lost my mind, "Of course, we're at home." He knew who he was again. My instinct told me that it is not normal for people to temporarily get amnesia for no reason. I took him straight to the VA and he was evaluated.

After waiting for the results of the tests the on-call doctor came in the room, rubbing his chin, pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, visibly struggling to find the right words, "You have been a patient here for a long time and have had many tests. This is not the first time your wife has described memory loss and there is only cause left that it could be: Early Onset Alzheimer's. I'm sorry."  You might think I would have passed out at this moment or wanted to die but I felt nothing, I was too stunned. My husband forgot the diagnosis the minute we left the VA but I thought about it all the way home and thought, "Oh, well, I can handle this, so he will forget things, how bad can it be?" This is where the word 'mercifully' begins to comes into the story. By the time we got home his regular doctor was already calling us. "I just got your husband's chart and I am so sorry about the diagnosis. It will be very difficult but I want you to know that when Alzheimer's patients are diagnosed this young (he was 59 and had probably had the disease for 5 years) they do not live long, and right now you won't believe this, but it will be a blessing. He probably has 3- 5 years. I'm so sorry." Still I didn't quite get it and I was still thinking, "I can handle this. It's ok. I can deal with this." I was so wrong. I barely survived.

Part 2 of my journey will be posted in the next few days.