This column published in

1993, shortly after the 40-year reunion of my high school

class. I've edited it slightly, and when you've read it,

you'll understand why I'm submitting it again....

Ann's story:

Ann's 58, and she has

Alzheimer's disease. We saw each other last month for the

first time in many years.

An editor once told me,

"A writer is only as good as her editor," and

although the idea flies in the face of my conviction that

we must accept responsibility for ourselves, I believe

there is truth in what she said.

Ann was my first editor, on

our high school paper. My two years on "The

Torch" hooked me on seeing my words in print.

I look at "The

Torch" today and find it a good little paper, upbeat

in tone and cleanly edited. My stuff wasn't bad. Either I

wrote pretty well - or I had a good editor.

Ann was short and feisty,

with a biting sense of humor. She had dated Wayne since

ninth grade, and they were one of those couples who hung

out together but never hung on each other. Whatever

romantic moments they had were strictly in private.

She was one of six kids in

a farm family near town. Wayne was an only child, his

father a weatherman on a Harrisburg radio station.

Wayne's nickname, of course, was "Rain."

At the 1993 reunion, I

learned more about their childhoods than I had known back

in our school days.

Wayne talked about how much

he enjoyed the hubbub at Ann's house, where, as eldest,

she discharged her duties at the top of her voice.

"At our house the

loudest sound heard after dinner was the turning of the

pages of my father's newspaper," Wayne said. "I

thought everybody's house was like that, until I went to

Ann's."

"I know what you

mean," chimed in Nancy, Ann's best friend, and also

an only. "I'd go over and sit down to supper

- they never noticed an extra child - and

I'd politely wait to have food passed as I did at home.

As soon as grace was said, every hand at the table

grabbed at the chicken. I was lucky to get a wing!"

Wayne and Ann married after

college, eventually earning Ph.D.s, and at one point

lived with three young sons in Singapore, where Wayne

taught at Trinity Theological College. Ann cofounded and

operated a day-care program for adults newly discharged

from mental health facilities.

When they returned to the

States, they became leaders in the gender equality

movement, helped establish a free school for adolescents,

practicing together as psychotherapists in Colorado.

Wayne's credits include published poetry and

collaboration on a book on rehabilitating men who abuse

their spouses.

Then came Ann's diagnosis.

Or was it a sentence?

"What made you go in

for testing, Ann?" I asked, when I realized she was

willing to talk about it.

"I was forgetting

things, and answering questions inappropriately,"

she said.

"I do that all the

time," I said glibly. "What's the difference

between just being wifty and suspecting

Alzheimer's?"

"It was

different," she assured me. "At first we

thought maybe a tumor, but tests ruled that out. They ran

the test for Alzheimer's, and when the doctor called us

into his office, he was crying.

" `You're too young,'

he said. But the diagnosis was positive."

"Do you have a family

history?" I asked, and immediately realized that I

was saying: "If you have a family history of

Alzheimer's, then that explains it. I won't have to worry

because I don't."

"No. No family

history."

A pause. "What did you

do?" I asked.

"I went home and took

spatulas and wooden spoons out of the kitchen, and

screamed and cried and beat the stuffing out of all the

pillows on the bed until I couldn't cry any more."

"Oh, Annie, I can't

imagine how angry you must have been. How are you now? Do

you feel okay?"

"I haven't got lost

yet, if that's what you mean. But I will."

I had the feeling she has

told her story often, to anyone who'll listen, and I know

that helps her cope. All I could think was, how unfair

that this brilliant, clever mind was going to erode away

- and she'll know it's happening.

During the reunion weekend,

I noticed Ann occasionally turning to Wayne for an

explanation of something someone had said, but it would

have been unremarkable had we not known.

And we still joked and

poked fun at each other: "Did you ever learn to

write headlines that fit?" "You know I made you

look better than you were!"

Not for nothing were these

two elected "Wittiest" in our class Who's Who.

Retiring to as stress-free

a life as possible to care for Ann, Wayne dropped in one

day to see the editor of his county's weekly, and came

out with a job as news reporter. He covers county

government, planning commission and the like, and proudly

showed me his press card. He also serves an Episcopal

mission as a deacon.

We swapped lies about our

journalistic endeavors, and Ann's eyes sparkled with

pleasure. And before we parted, swearing not to lose

touch again, I said the only thing I could think of:

"Hang in, you two. They'll lick this thing yet, and

in time for you."

"At least I haven't

got lost yet," Ann said, again. "But I

will."

Update: She did, often,

before she died in 1995. And they haven't licked

"this thing." Wayne has written a book -

Tears in God's Bottle: Reflections on Alzheimer's

Caregiving - about the deep wellsprings of Biblical

spirituality he found to sustain him through the

nightmare of their journey together.

Please consider this my

personal invitation to you to come and meet my friend,

Wayne Ewing, a remarkable survivor, when he comes to

Peachtree City next week. See Page 1B of the Healthwise

Section for dates and times.

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