Every since my husband was diagnosed in 2009, I’ve become well-versed on the PPA version of the condition. But I figure there’s always more to learn, so here I sit hoping to catch news of some miracle cure.
I listen to speaker after speaker. Yes, awareness is building. Yes, research continues. But, no, no hope yet for reversal of Tommy’s loss of speech. I slump in my seat, discouraged.
A speaker steps on stage to introduce the topic of bvFTD. My attention sharpens; this version is new to me. I learn that the “bv” that precedes FTD stands for “behavior variant.” Those burdened with those added initials, “can experience excessive spending with a lack of awareness of its implications,” she says.
Then, hands are raised in the audience, microphones are passed, and the horror stories begin — of loved ones’ shoplifting, impulsive buying, and falling prey to Internet swindlers.
“I came home and there was a boat in my driveway,” says one caregiver who has risen to her feet.
The microphone goes to a man who volunteers, “She bought a new car, never discussed it with me.”
I overhear a woman seated in my row who says to someone on her right, “My husband sent money to Nigerian scammers, and when I stopped it, they started harassing me.”
And there was more: sweepstakes, mail orders, contests, door-to-door salespeople, lotteries; all spilled out as examples of bvFTD misery.
“My God,” I say too loudly. To myself, I think, even if my husband could still talk, or use computers, he’d never get bvFTD because he’s a tightwad.
As I lean back in the cushioned seat, I recall a scene that supports my logic.
“I like it,” Tommy had said as he stared at the new Timex I fastened on his wrist.
“You do?” I said. I stood back, hands on hips, and studied him as he twisted it upright so its white face was easily visible.
I was pleased at my husband’s reaction because this watch, which I had purchased at Nordstrom’s for $65, replaced the Pulsar he had worn for 40 years.
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