Anti- Depressants

24th May 2011 Tuesday

Today is our appointment with the consultant neurologist who gave us my husband’s diagnosis of Pick’s disease/semantic dementia five months ago on 14th December. That date has stayed in my mind like a splinter.

This morning he is wearing a light linen summer suit almost the colour of mustard. He is very tall - all long gangly legs.The suit is very tight and rides up showing his golden socks. He has a soft voice, a friendly manner but I get the feeling our slot mustn’t run over five minutes. My husband explains his situation - lost job, mostly low mood, tired and shagged out a lot of the time, feeing a failure.

Our man offers anti depressants. Asks my husband if he has any enthusiasms and if he likes music. He says it is hard now to assess the trajectory of the disease with so much stress and it’s no wonder he can’t concentrate when he tries to read the newspaper.

We will come back in six months time.

My husband says it was a waste of time and we drive to Topsham for breakfast only to find our favourite cafe closed. We have coffee and scrambled eggs in another cafe. They are hot and well cooked but I find myself comparing them and my husband misses the chilli jam he always has in The Avocet.

Afterwards we river walk and talk - carrying on the conversation we started this morning in bed.

I agree to stop being like his mother and telling him what to do and making helpful suggestions which he doesn’t interpret as helpful but as telling him what he should do. He agrees to trust the process - for which I don’t have any pictures - but agree to trust him anyway. I notice how much I don't want to give up my enthusiasm for my old ways of being.

Much later, after my evening with two gorgeous women eating supper on a sunny terrace, talking and crying and laughing on the sofa, I suggest to my husband that he could still take up our man’s offer of anti depressants. He says he doesn’t want to. Maybe if I hadn’t said anything........