close, I can feel the warmth of his skin on mine.
âHey, youâve g-got aâ¦â He reaches for my face, and I forget to breathe. What is he doing? If I leaned forward an inch or two, my lips would touch his. I canât remember the last time I was this close to someone. Then again, I wouldnât remember.
âEye-hair,â he says finally, swiping a hair from my cheek. He balances it on his fingertip for me to see. I get the feeling that âeye-hairâ is not the word to describe it, but I am too acutely aware of the proximity of his body to think of the right one. He blows the eye-hair away, then sits back. âSorry. What did we ⦠what were we s-saying?â
I canât remember, and I suspect it has nothing to do with the Alzheimerâs. I can still feel his warmth, the burn of his fingertip on my face.
âUh, was it ⦠your sister?â I ask.
âOh. Yeah.â He shuffles, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. âSarahâs c-cash-rich, time-poor, and a believer in finding solutions.â His throat works with the effort of speaking. âI just worry what sheâll do down the road, when the next ⦠âproblemâ p-presents itself.â
He doesnât need to explain what the next problem could be. I already know. Delusional episodes. Loss of bladder and bowel control. Feeding issues. Catastrophic reactions. DNRs.
âSarah cares, b-but ⦠Iâm not sure that sheâd make the same decisions that I would, when it came to the crunch. I donât want ⦠diapers ⦠the first time I have an accident or to be f-furnished with a chalkboard when my speech deteriorates. I donât want to be ⦠p-pushed in a chair with wheels when I can still walk.â
This little speech looks like itâs taken an enormous amount of effort. And while I donât entirely share his convictions, thereâs something to be admired about his passion. It might be the fact that itâs difficult for him to speak, or maybe just the pendulum of moods of Alzheimerâs, but as I listen to him talk, my eyes fill.
âAt some point, Iâm going to have to start letting go of control,â he says. âBut I have n-no plans to do it without a fight. And Sarah, I can just see herâLukeâs having trouble dressing himself, letâs p-pay someone to do it for him. Lukeâs not doing enough ⦠exercise; letâs schedule some activities. Letâs give him sleeping tablets to help him s-sleep, letâs feed him. No. Thatâs not what I want. I donât want to exist. I want to love.â
âLive,â I correct, but he doesnât seem to notice.
I have to admit, I think heâs right to be wary of handing his affairs to his sister. Itâs one of the reasons I donât want my life to get to that point. As good as Jackâs intentions are, I wouldnât want him pulling my puppet strings down the road.
âBrothers,â I say with an over-the-top sigh. Itâs funny, even though weâve just been discussing dementia-related stuff, for the last few minutes, it didnât feel like either of us had dementia. It felt like we were just a guy and a girl, discussing life.
âLuke?â
We both glance at the doorway, where Eric is standing.
âYour doctor is here to see you,â Eric says.
âOh. Sure.â Young Guy, Luke, rises to his feet.
âWould you like me to take you back to your room, Anna?â Eric asks.
Luke looks at me. He kicks his foot gently against mineâa benign enough gesture that somehow has me blushing. âW-will you be here when I get b-back?â
I glance to where Eric is standing: red-faced, fat and smirking. Then I look back at Luke. âWell,â I say quietly, âIâve had some pretty tempting offers, but yeah, what the hell, why not?â
To Eric I say, âThanks
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