LOST AND NOT FOUND

man lost in woods
People with Alzheimers may wander away, never to be seen again.

A while back I wrote for the magazine section of our local newspaper’s  Sunday edition, aptly titled “Brightside.”  

The articles were to be just that: bright and happy stories, good-news stories about people; what they were doing, interesting hobbies or talents, about gardens – either beautifully filled with flowers or vegetables, do-it-yourself projects or whatever was out there to make someone smile.  The section was all about people found to be on the “Brightside” of life.

 

It was before conglomerates gobbled up all of the family-owned newspapers pulling them into vast impersonal syndications buying most of their stories from a news service.  It was a less-hurried time when people actually read the bulging paper tossed on their front porch.

One of the very interesting people who appeared in the section was a librarian whose career spanned most of her adult life.  It wasn’t until she was in her later years that she decided to become a writer.  Surrounded by books all day, every day she knew where the “holes” were on the shelves.  Time after time children came up to her desk and asked about bugs.  Search though she did, there were no books about bugs for children. Finding a “hole” she began to fill it.

Doing her own research through adult scientific material, she translated the intricate entomology facts into “kid” stuff.  Successfully, she wrote, while the publisher’s artist illustrated, a series of charming children’s books about bugs.  Someone tagged her The Bug Lady.

Our editor thought her a delightful prospect for a Brightside article.  We writers all wanted the assignment, but it went to someone other than me who happened to be one of her friends.  Several of us got to meet this self-made bug expert who did look like a story-book librarian.  Wrapped in a warm cardigan sweater, a plain skirt, sensible shoes and very thick glasses she made all who met her feel like a child gaining knowledge as she shared her story.  She mentioned that her books didn’t make her very much money, but it was something she loved doing, and better than money her reward came as she watched the wide-eyed children smile and marvel at the informative, colorful books she helped create.

When we met, The Bug Lady was near retirement and ready for the change it would bring to her life.  She and her husband lived locally in a modest home, and soon settled into the comforts of just being themselves without the pressures of going to work each day.  Brightside ran the article and we writers found other people with interesting stories to tell.

Several years later I read about her again in the newspaper.  This time it was sad and shocking.  The Bug Lady had contracted Alzheimer’s.  Understanding the disease as I do now, it must have been a rapid decline for her because she was still very physically active and when she walked, some of her friends stated, she walked very fast.  Somehow, she had left her home and disappeared.   My friend and I went to visit with her grief-stricken husband to see if there was any way we could help.  Teary-eyed he could only relate what he knew.  She was gone.  There was a short blurb about her disappearance on TV news and a few continuing articles in the paper, but there was never a hint to her whereabouts – missing without a trace.  What could possibly be worse than having Alzheimer’s?  Having AD and disappearing never to be seen again.

During the past seven-plus years I have been thankful that Ken didn’t wander, but just because wandering wasn’t part of his habits didn’t mean that he might not scurry off if given the opportunity – not so much an opportunity – but a reason.  One night, a few years ago he had both.  After dinner with our friend Jayne, he and I headed for our car.  It was very dark, but Jayne followed us out to say goodnight.  I opened the car door and climbed into the driver’s seat, and then reached across to unlock the other door so Ken could get in.  Jayne and I talked for a few moments and when I turned to see if Ken was settled in, I was stunned to see he wasn’t there.  Leaping out of the car I looked up and down the driveway.  He was gone.  Apparently, with my quick disappearance into the car in the surrounding darkness, he must have forgotten where he was and, I suppose, began looking for me.  Glancing around I could see him walking quickly down the sidewalk as if he had some place urgent to go.  Already a good 200 feet away he was headed in the direction of a main thoroughfare with bright lights and activity.   I ran after him calling his name.  Still, he didn’t stop.  Instead he seemed to pick up speed hurrying toward the intersection.  Reaching him I grabbed his sleeve commanding loudly, “Ken, stop!”  “What?” he questioned in return, looking at me in surprise.  “Come back and get into the car so we can go home,” I prompted.  He asked where the car was as I turned him around so we could walk in the right direction.  Grumbling and complaining he came with me as I ushered him into the passenger seat making sure the seat belt was buckled.  “Goodnight, Jayne,” I called.  She waved and went into the house.

The experience had been a bit disconcerting, but because I could see him I didn’t panic, and he had a distance to go before he came to the intersection so there was no immediate danger.  The incident, though, taught me a good lesson: make sure he gets into the car, especially realizing how quickly he could have vanished into the dark night.

When Ben came as his caregiver, security at our house became even better than it had been before, and while Ken’s strength is now at a point where I doubt he would get very far before having to sit down and rest we don’t take chances with the outside doors which are double locked with us holding all the keys.

What could be more terrifying or devastating, more heart-wrenching or guilt-ridden to a family than having their loved one who is stricken with any of the Dementia-related illnesses lost in a confusing, often cruel and sometimes evil world?  At times I have wondered if Ben wasn’t being too careful about the doors always being double-locked, but then I tell myself that double locks are a good thing remembering the old saying, “Better safe than sorry.”

Photo courtesy of  http://www.flickr.com/photos/mysza/

Originally posted 2011-07-31 03:41:15.

2 Responses to LOST AND NOT FOUND

  • I don’t know anyone with Alzheimer’s, but I can imagine it would be frightening to have, as well as to deal with. Funny how my blog today (and first blog post) is sort of referencing a similar incident. Granted, it deals with children and can sound harsh. I can imagine taking care of someone with Alzheimer’s is difficult and even more unpredictable than a child could be.

    • aromick says:

      Thanks for reading, and you are correct. I wrote one post titled, “My Tall Toddler.” I also think of my toddlers often when I direct him to put shoes on, etc. Awful disease as it regresses them back to nearly the infants they were at one time. Good luck with your blog.

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