Contrasts   (as posted to alt.support.alzheimers, March 17, 2001)

This afternoon at work I sat at my work station totally involved in testing a new computer system for generating electronic (paperless) airline tickets and simultaneously as the testing proceeded from step to step, writing a teaching manual for the electronic ticketing transfer information from one computer system (the airline's) into another system (Word.) I am teaching myself Word as I go along.

I was also working simultaneously in airline language, computer programming language, microsoft language, written English and written something translated into English to use as my reference for testing. All the while, not being in a private room, dealing with various levels of phone conversations, person to person conversations and an occasional visit from someone needing to ask me a question plus, from time to time, remotely wishing my phone won't ring.

Suddenly, I stopped. Stopped everything cold. I was intensely aware  of the complexities of all this multi-tasking and that my mind -seemingly without effort- was keeping all of these variables running on parallel tracks totally organized and progressing smoothly forward like the proverbial well oiled piece of machinery.  What I saw was a train smoking and churning and clicking and woo woo wooing.

Tonight, I have spent a lot of time watching Mom stare blankly into space. Barely able to process a "hi". But she _did_ process my "hi" with a "hi" of her own. That doesn't always happen.

Mom can't communicate outwardly hardly at all anymore. Her occasional focus on something can disappear in the blink of an eye. I wish I knew how much she actually understands about herself, about anything.

Mom doesn't always know to open her mouth to take in food, but let her cat, Tuffy, jump up with her and that hand springs up in an instant to pet him.

Mom doesn't always know when she's sitting on the pot that she's supposed to go, but let there be a knock at the door (or some similar sound in the house) and surprisingly there is a full voiced, "Just a minute."

What did Mom know thirty some years or so ago when she expressed to me her only fear in life was that some day she might go crazy, but now she can barely express an emotion of any kind save an occasional smile.

What a bizarre journey the two of us are on together. I have been intensely struck tonight by this contrast. I have found myself extremely thankful for the health of my own mind.

Cheers,
<rambling> Daniel