There can be a level of autism in people with Huntington’s as
the brain’s more complex functions begin to erode. I see it with Nick in
conversation as he vaguely recognizes that some response is required and he
tried to offer an appropriate comment.
For a long time when he was living up north and
appeared fairly well in many respects (and to the point that I often forgot
about the illness), he would infuriate me on the phone; we’d be talking as
normal and I’d tell him something funny or sad but it was as if he couldn’t always
tell which was which.
“HOW
Funny” he’d reply, or “HOW
interesting” – sometimes interchangeably, as if at random. I felt maddened
by his pat response. We had been friends and confidantes for so long and this reaction seemed so insensitive, like he wasn’t really paying attention. Now I realize it
was the encroaching effects of the disease, slowly stealing his emotional
capabilities and empathy.
One time I had to tell him that someone we had both
known since primary school had died suddenly, leaving two young children, and I was feeling very shocked
and upset. I thought Nick would understand but he listened and then said,
“HOW
funny. Guess where I went for lunch
today?”
These days I don’t look to him for an
empathetic response – if it suddenly comes along, that’s great, but I don’t
expect it. His world is shrinking around him and the thing that seems to
dominate emotionally is where and when he is going to get his next drink.
It’s not that he’s a lost cause; he can still
be thoughtful and sensitive and make sweet gestures; he was determined to buy
people Christmas presents, for instance (with a bit of help actually getting to
the shops and paying for things) and he clearly loves us, his children and his
cats.
But it’s hard to tell what he is actually feeling,
and perhaps that is a mercy too – that as the illness gets worse and even eating,
swallowing, sitting in a chair become Herculean tasks, the brain shuts down its
emotional responses to concentrate on the important job of just surviving.
