would forever isolate the Cape from the rest of Massachusetts, in both geography and in spirit.
Negotiating the Sagamore Bridge and its sibling, the Bourne Bridge, is symbolic to the locals: a route on-Cape and off-Cape, a passageway to different states of mind. Coming or going, the bridge is always pause for reflection about what draws one so closely to this fragile spit of sand, a possession that began in me as a young boy in the early â50s and has gripped me since.
Heading off-Cape on Thursday, July 2, 2009 in my sun-bleached, yellow Jeep with Mary Catherine in the passenger seat was a particularly potent time of a weighing up of lifeâa moment, I considered, of fleeting independence as we made our way toward Plymouth to a life-altering appointment with a neurologist on referral, a specialist in the care of Alzheimerâs disease. I looked to the starboard from the peak of the bridge, as I usually do, but staring this time through the empty expression of my wife. Her focus, like a faithful mariner, was due north, just getting there. The morning was brilliant, on the lip of the ceremonial July 4 th weekend, the ritual start of the Cape and Islands âseason.â In less than 24-hours, miles of campers, SUVs, and Beamers would be queued up in traffic for a summer fix, but on this otherwise bracing day, all the buzz of the solstice was lost on me. Fixed in thought, a carousel of images of innocent days on pastoral Coast Guard Beach and Nauset Light Beach flashed through my headâimages of raising our three children in a place far more a privilege than just a street address. Iâve always believed that on Cape Cod, Nantucket, and Marthaâs Vineyard,we are privileged just to live here, but not privileged for being here. The place is far larger, more inspiring in the natural, than we. I thought, driving in my Jeep, about the promise of the past, the potential that I had once felt, and the resolve to persevere on a still dazzling, yet dead-end peninsula with one way on and one way off. My life at this point seemed to mirror this.
As we negotiated the Sagamore to the realities of the mainland, I thought of recent roadblocks in my life, the unexpected detours on the day calendar. In so many ways, I had taken a privileged past, a presumptive future, and God-given talents all for granted. Like an enduring lobsterman in the fertile currents of Pleasant Bay, I had been pulling full pots all my life, loaded with an abundance of blessings, and now the pots were coming up empty. Over time, I had lost my bearingâadrift in unchartered waters in a place where I could once spot channel buoys by instinct. The realization was as chilling to me as the ocean current off Chatham in February. I had tried in the recent past to conceal the cold truth from others, to work the spin of distractionâthe so called Wizard of Oz strategy, Pay no attention to the man behind the screen! I was always good at deflecting. But no longer; not with family, close friends, and some colleagues who have known me for years, and now had begun to realize that something might be terribly wrong. The curtain was drawn in Oz. There was no wizard.
I began to think about the unsettling memory loss over the last few years: the loss of self and place; the piss-poor judgment; a wholesale loss of filter; the visual impairments; the incontinence, often after performing like a puppet genius before clients; the mental numbness; a complete loss of self-esteem; and the agitation of clinical depression that began as a boy. I thought about that horrifying dislocation months ago while Christmas shopping with my son, Conor, in a Providence mall, not knowing for a half hour where I was or who I was. I thought about a serious head injury years ago that doctors say likely acceleratedearlier dementia symptoms, and about my recent diagnosis of prostate cancerâanother medical hand-me-down from my parents. I thought about the rage I felt
Negotiating the Sagamore Bridge and its sibling, the Bourne Bridge, is symbolic to the locals: a route on-Cape and off-Cape, a passageway to different states of mind. Coming or going, the bridge is always pause for reflection about what draws one so closely to this fragile spit of sand, a possession that began in me as a young boy in the early â50s and has gripped me since.
Heading off-Cape on Thursday, July 2, 2009 in my sun-bleached, yellow Jeep with Mary Catherine in the passenger seat was a particularly potent time of a weighing up of lifeâa moment, I considered, of fleeting independence as we made our way toward Plymouth to a life-altering appointment with a neurologist on referral, a specialist in the care of Alzheimerâs disease. I looked to the starboard from the peak of the bridge, as I usually do, but staring this time through the empty expression of my wife. Her focus, like a faithful mariner, was due north, just getting there. The morning was brilliant, on the lip of the ceremonial July 4 th weekend, the ritual start of the Cape and Islands âseason.â In less than 24-hours, miles of campers, SUVs, and Beamers would be queued up in traffic for a summer fix, but on this otherwise bracing day, all the buzz of the solstice was lost on me. Fixed in thought, a carousel of images of innocent days on pastoral Coast Guard Beach and Nauset Light Beach flashed through my headâimages of raising our three children in a place far more a privilege than just a street address. Iâve always believed that on Cape Cod, Nantucket, and Marthaâs Vineyard,we are privileged just to live here, but not privileged for being here. The place is far larger, more inspiring in the natural, than we. I thought, driving in my Jeep, about the promise of the past, the potential that I had once felt, and the resolve to persevere on a still dazzling, yet dead-end peninsula with one way on and one way off. My life at this point seemed to mirror this.
As we negotiated the Sagamore to the realities of the mainland, I thought of recent roadblocks in my life, the unexpected detours on the day calendar. In so many ways, I had taken a privileged past, a presumptive future, and God-given talents all for granted. Like an enduring lobsterman in the fertile currents of Pleasant Bay, I had been pulling full pots all my life, loaded with an abundance of blessings, and now the pots were coming up empty. Over time, I had lost my bearingâadrift in unchartered waters in a place where I could once spot channel buoys by instinct. The realization was as chilling to me as the ocean current off Chatham in February. I had tried in the recent past to conceal the cold truth from others, to work the spin of distractionâthe so called Wizard of Oz strategy, Pay no attention to the man behind the screen! I was always good at deflecting. But no longer; not with family, close friends, and some colleagues who have known me for years, and now had begun to realize that something might be terribly wrong. The curtain was drawn in Oz. There was no wizard.
I began to think about the unsettling memory loss over the last few years: the loss of self and place; the piss-poor judgment; a wholesale loss of filter; the visual impairments; the incontinence, often after performing like a puppet genius before clients; the mental numbness; a complete loss of self-esteem; and the agitation of clinical depression that began as a boy. I thought about that horrifying dislocation months ago while Christmas shopping with my son, Conor, in a Providence mall, not knowing for a half hour where I was or who I was. I thought about a serious head injury years ago that doctors say likely acceleratedearlier dementia symptoms, and about my recent diagnosis of prostate cancerâanother medical hand-me-down from my parents. I thought about the rage I felt
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