"On Living With a Threat"

threat:  n.  A person or thing likely to cause damage or danger


It was November. I turned my back and our Indian Summer disappeared. Its warm, sunny days were replaced by wet ones with a cold, bone-penetrating chill.

Utility work was taking place down the street from my house. As I headed for my gardening job, traffic was stopped, controlled by workers with stop/slow signs. What a horrible job, I thought, considering the hours they spend standing in the wet, the cold, and the heat. I was heartened by the knowledge I have the freedom, as a self-employed person, to call it a day if the elements become too harsh. As I cranked up the heater in my truck, my work task for the day didn’t seem so horrible.

Oh, how I would hate being a _____. For the life of me. For all the money in the world. I could not think of the job title given those workers with the signs. The threat I live with found its way into my mind, seeking a place to germinate and take root.   

“Something is happening, Ladonna. I can feel it. I know it. I reach for a word, and it’s gone. It’s simply not there. Something horrible is happening in my brain.” My friend was in her early 50’s when she repeatedly expressed this to me. I offered reassurances and yet, at the same time, I felt a foreboding within that all was not well. Early Alzheimer’s was taking her over, a battle and a struggle that went on for a long while. It ended in her death three years ago when she had only begun life as a senior citizen

My mother lived with Alzheimer’s for ten years before passing, so I know full well the horrors of that state. There are those who ask, "Aren't you afraid?" when I share my mother's condition. They perceive that the handwriting is on the wall as I await the passing down of a grisly family heirloom.

I spent the day raking fallen leaves, another product of November. I found myself raking, raking, raking--almost frantically—all the while trying to fill in that blank with the name of the occupation of those with the stop signs. At the same time, my thoughts were on my friend--and my mother--understanding exactly what she meant when she expressed the vaporization of a word.   

Traffic controllers, security guards, crosswalk guards...No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't grab the elusive word from thin air and was becoming quite distraught over my inability to identify something so familiar.  

We all forget things. I maintain that, at the age of 70, my mind can only hold a certain amount of information. Therefore, if it isn't genuinely important, it slips to the bottom of the memory file. While this didn’t fall in that category, not being able to remember was quite disconcerting. In addition, there was that Alzheimer's threat.

Approaching my Father, I heard myself say, "I'm scared. I'm really scared."

Going out on a proverbial limb, I am going to state that I feel living with a threat is not a rare situation. We each have our own background and experiences. Many of those carry with them a genetic propensity or a family history with serious ramifications. Perhaps it is cancer or diabetes. There may be heart conditions, mental illness, or addictive behavior amongst relatives. Obesity may be staring full bore or, yes, Alzheimer's. The threats may be insidious or direct; occasional or frequent. They always target one's vulnerability and the emotional facet of self. 

Living with a threat often means living life dodging a bullet while a guillotine hangs over one’s head, never knowing how, when, or where it is going to be released. I suspect you understand.

How does one live with a threat? I cannot apply my approach to another, only relate it.

In such circumstances I have learned I have the choice to either live under fear or live free from it. I refuse to allow the fear I am going to be a victim of Alzheimer’s to dominate and control me.

My mother's life is not mine. I choose, rather, to live life with my focus on God. Simplistic, unrealistic, naive? Perhaps. But I can do nothing to control my future or my destiny. Only He can.

Flaggers!! That is what they are called. They are the ones who control traffic in road construction areas. I refused to search it out on the Internet or ask someone. It did come to mind--after I stopped wrestling with it, trying to figure it out. 

Some would say, “Thank God for minor miracles.” It is a miracle; it isn't minor.

Thank you, God. 

                                “All I have asked you to do is to live your life.” 

                                  For God has not given us the spirit of fear; 

                              but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

                                                                                     II Timothy 1:7