Someone very close to me is suffering from cognitive decline. For privacy’s sake, I’d rather not say who, but it’s someone very close to my heart.
For the purpose of this piece, I’ll call him Alois. (Which happens to be the first name of Dr. Alzheimer.) But don’t read anything into that: Alois is a male name, but that doesn’t mean this person is male. I don’t want this to become a guessing game, with readers trying to reverse engineer the clues.
By the way, isn’t it ironic that nobody will ever forget the name of Dr. Alzheimer?
Watching someone experience cognitive decline is so strange, because they’re still alive — you can hug, hold, and kiss them — yet they’re fading before your eyes. Every day, another piece of their soul drifts before you. Every day, the portrait gets blurrier.
It forces you to reconsider fundamental questions of identity: What makes you… you?
Are we the sum total of all our life experiences? If so, what happens when we can’t remember them anymore? Are we what we think? If so, what happens when our minds are no longer capable of those thoughts?
If someone gets mangled in a car crash and loses an arm or a leg, they’re still the same person. Sames goes with most body parts. But the mind is different, because the mind is indistinguishable from identity. It’s hard to know where one ends and the other begins.
As René Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am.”
I’ve heard horror stories about people stricken with senility and their entire personality chances: A kind, sweet woman turns into an angry, mean bully — or a loving, caring man transforms into a coldhearted monster. (Fortunately, “Alois” hasn’t switched personalities. Still a sweetheart.)
To me, that’s the worst thing that could ever happen: Imagine spending your entire life being a loving, honorable family man — and right before you pass away, the final memory you leave for your children is you acting like a vicious, nasty jerk. Oof. That’s just so unfair!
But there’s nothing fair about Alzheimer’s disease, or the other forms of senility. It strikes men and women; geniuses and dunces; workout warriors and couch potatoes. Science is getting better at managing the decline, but there’s no cure anywhere on the horizon.
Some data suggests creatine could be helpful at safeguarding our mental acuity. Anecdotal evidence from medical influencers is encouraging, and since the risks of creatine are minimal, it’s probably worth considering.
Other medical studies recommend the Mediterranean diet. And at least one study claims that you can reduce your risk of Alzheimer’s disease by… well, if you’re curious, you can hold your nose and click this link.
“Alois” sometimes gets confused and frustrated, but for the most part, I think he’s happy. He still enjoys spending time with his friends and loved ones, and he’s actually gotten more social: He’ll walk up and start chatting with pretty much anyone now.
That’s not something he did before.
When he repeats the same stories, I don’t stop him. I figure, if he enjoys sharing them with me, the least I could do is shut up and listen.
And every now and then — without rhyme or reason — he’ll suddenly reverts to full acuity. He’ll keep his train of thought and seem totally normal. You can have a full, adult conversation.
But it doesn’t last very long.
Which somehow seems crueler: Your hopes are raised — and then they’re crushed.
Cognitive decline is especially heartbreaking for couples. The spouse of the victim suffers, often in silence, because he or she is now excluded from couples’ activities. When your partner can’t be left alone anymore, all social interactions are compromised. Everyone pitties the patient, but the spouse is often overlooked.
Just as an Alzheimer’s patient’s memories fade, so does the spouse’s place in society.
If you’re a widow or widower, you fit neatly into a box. People know how to support you. There’s closure, sadness — and then the possibility of a new beginning.
But when your spouse has Alzheimer’s, you’re in purgatory. It just goes on and on. The pattern never changes: plateau, decline. Plateau, decline. Plateau, decline.
And each day is more terrifying than the last, because you know it’s going to get even worse. It’s inevitable.
Until the person you love fades for good.
My kids and I visited “Alois” recently. It was bittersweet: We value our time together more than ever, because it’s clear our time is limited. The end of the runway is rapidly approaching, so every moment matters.
But so much of Alois is already gone.
One of my kids told me, “Going senile and not being able to take care of myself is my biggest nightmare. I’d rather be dead than lose my mind like that.”
I said, “Relax, buddy. You know I’ll always take care of you!”
I’m in my 50s. My kids are in their teens. And unlike their father, whose head is in the clouds, they’re both dyed-in-the-wool realists.
And then my son looked at me with the saddest eyes I’ve even seen.
Because he wasn’t imagining the day when I take care of him. He was imagining the opposite.
It was heartbreaking: I’ll never forget the sadness in his eyes.
At least, I hope I won’t.
