I pulled into our driveway that Valentine's Day to find the house dark. I walked into the kitchen and dropped my purse on a chair. I picked up the candy box I'd left tied with a red ribbon that morning when my husband, Wendell, walked into the room.
"Welcome home!" He gave me a quick hug and looked out the kitchen window. "Was the organ grinder's monkey on the front lawn when you came in?"
I stared at him and answered slowly. "No."
He shrugged and smiled, "Huh. He was there just a minute ago." Then Wendell walked into the living room, crashed on the sofa, and began to snore.
I slammed the lid on the trashcan and stomped toward the bedroom. No response. I flipped on every light switch as I went through the house, but Wendell didn't move.
In the bedroom, I kicked my shoes toward the closet and sighed. Maybe the neurologist was wrong. Maybe Wendell does have Alzheimer's. Maybe he has finally, truly lost it.
I thought about the two years of doctors, tests, and trouble we'd been through. It started with mild symptoms. General fatigue, headaches. It progressed to the point Wendell fell into walls, stumbled on sidewalks, and couldn't remember where we were going once we were five minutes down the road. We'd chased every disease from multiple sclerosis to Alzheimer's, going all the way to the Mayo Clinic and back again.
"God, please tell me what's wrong with Wendell!"
And then God answered my prayer.
"You Can't Trust Him Right Now"
I spotted a used syringe from Wendell's medical bag lying on my hope chest. Beside it, an empty vial of something I couldn't pronounce. What had my doctor husband done?1