In once sense, it doesn’t much matter. All of these disorders are incurable, irreversible, degenerative, terminal. (What can be controlled, to varying degrees, are their symptoms; the eighteen tablets and capsules I take per day do a pretty good job of that.)
But final determination of just which of the bozos has been at work has to wait for an autopsy, and I’m not inclined to rush toward that.
What can be noted, however, is what diagnosticians call “the maturing of symptoms”: i.e. the way they multiply and get worse.
And that’s where my dear bride and I are these days. We both watch the symptoms; and, in many ways, Anne’s observations are more important and objective than mine. I’m inside this thing, you see; and so my grasp of what’s going on, especially cognitively, isn’t as trustworthy as her’s. God bless my care partner!
More about this later, but recent new symptoms are starting to narrow thee field of possibilities. Soon, maybe, I’ll have a tentative name for what’s been creeping along behind me.
And so here I am, old friends, with more balance problems, more diverting hallucinations, occasional speech sloppiness, and a memory that behaves like the front end of a glacier. But for now, friends, there’s plenty enough left of me to visit with you again. Oh, how I’ve missed that!