Getting Affairs in Order

At forty-nine, Jim exhibited troubling symptoms, but the first MRI came back “normal.” About a year later, we visited a neurologist who ran a SPECT (single-photon emission computed tomography) scan. The SPECT scan was abnormal and the doctor believed damage could have been from a stroke.

I wrote about trying to find a definitive diagnosis in Indelible, an unpublished memoir:

 Jim began to have difficulty writing. He would write letters but they wouldn’t make words. Most of the time, the combination was close enough that I knew what he meant.

I wanted him to feel useful and to “exercise his brain.” One morning, I was washing the breakfast dishes, and Jim was sitting at the table. “Honey, would you make a grocery list for me?” I nodded toward the pad and pen I’d placed on the table. “We need paper towels,” I said.

He picked up the pen and wrote on the notepad. “We need milk,” I said.

Jim set the pen down. “I don’t want to.” He walked out of the room, and I sat down to finish the list. On the paper, he had printed, “taper powels.”

Later he picked up the list and studied it carefully. “I wonder why I spelled ‘paper towels’ that way,” he said.

Little things began to add up. When we played cards, his mom had to help him pick out the suit. Sometimes he didn’t know which cards were hearts, diamonds, spades, or clubs.

Jim couldn’t dial a telephone number. He couldn’t count his money and had trouble using the ATM. He stopped pumping gas because the pumps had too many options that had to be selected. He couldn’t change the tire on my car, although at one time he could change a tire faster than anyone else I knew. 

Jim did most things slowly and sometimes forgot a step or did something that didn’t make sense. When he intended to make a glass of instant tea, sometimes he would put in sugar and water, but forget the tea. When he fixed a bowl of cereal, he would put milk and sweetener in the bowl but forget the cereal.

Ryan’s was one of Jim’s favorite places to eat. As soon as I paid, Jim would go to the buffet and pick up a serving spoon. He would look around because he knew something was missing.

“Here’s a plate,” I said.

Jim took the plate and scooped up a spoonful of gravy. He backtracked and put mashed potatoes on top. Next, he placed spaghetti sauce on his plate and topped it with a generous helping of spaghetti. He set his plate on a nearby table and wandered back to the buffet line.

Jim was eyeing the soup. “If you’ll bring me a bowl, I’ll get you some soup,” I said. He brought me a plate and I swapped it for a bowl. We found a table and sat down to eat.

“What day is it?” he asked. He had already asked that question four or five times already. 

 “What time is it?” I asked him since he had a watch and I wasn’t wearing mine. He opened his pocket watch and studied the dial. He closed it. “Well?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” he replied.

With the possibility of stroke damage, we set up an appointment with a cardiologist who sent us back to the neurologist for a second MRI. As we waited for the doctor to tell us the test results, we sat in side-by-side chairs in an examining room. We were both scared. I knew I looked as worried, or more so, than Jim did.

The neurologist breezed into the room. “Now, we know why you are having trouble with thinking. Your MRI shows brain atrophy.”

The tears began to flow. “Why so sad?” he asked. “Other people have similar problems and go on with their lives.”

He talked with us for a while explaining the changes in Jim’s brain. “Do you have your legal affairs in order?” he asked.

“No,” I admitted, thinking that question had an ominous sound to it.

He looked at Jim and said, “Jim, if you are not able to make your own decisions, who do you want making them for you—your wife, or some stranger?”

“Her,” Jim said pointing at me.

 We made an appointment with an attorney and he stepped us through our wills, advance directives, health and financial power of attorney documents. Before long, we had our affairs in order. I had no idea how important it was to have those documents until Jim could no longer sign his name or make financial decisions.

Now, all these years later, I’m getting my affairs in order—again. I’ve been meaning to update my documents for several years, but it was easier to put it off than it was to make the appointment and the effort.

What I really should do is pare down my inventory. I need to get more than affairs in order—I need to get closets, cabinets, dresser drawers, and a basement in order.

The ultimate goal is to get my life in order. I want to let go of the time wasters that no longer enrich my life, and to make time for the activities that make life more enjoyable. I want to spend more time with people I love. I want to wake up excited for the day ahead.

Jim used to say that he needed something to look forward to—and for him that was usually a trip to Branson or across country. He was right about that. If you lose focus on the joy of living, life loses its joy.

Getting affairs in order is a reminder that life on this earth doesn’t go on forever. It means getting in touch with your mortality and planning your exit strategy.   

 Copyright © Feb 2024 by L.S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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