He was in his early fifties when it started. Alzheimer. It started off slowly, forgetting appointments, forgetting things in the grocery store. Then he couldn’t read or watch TV. He had to stop working a long time ago. So he did what he still could. He gardened. Not just in his own yard, but in our yard too. Our yard never looked as good as when he roamed around in it for hours each day. One day he was visiting and I found him at the top of our stairs. He looked so utterly lost, desperate. It was clear he had no idea where he was. He looked at me with eyes full of sadness and said with a brave voice: ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ All I could do was smile and point him in the right direction. He knew he was ill. Then he forgot he was ill. He forgot his name, the name of his wife. He forgot everything he ever knew. I still remember when my father told me he had gotten aggressive, violent. He wasn’t the person he used to be.
Now he is dead. He died not knowing who he was, where he was, what was going on. He died knowing nothing. He died knowing nothing more than when he was born.
(Source: creationoftheday)
