but Iâm fine right here.â
Luke grins and wanders off toward Eric. In the doorway, he pauses, staring at the thin, shiny strip of metal edging on the carpet, separating the parlor from the hall. Then he lifts his foot to knee height, stepping over the strip as though it were a raised bar or stair. At first I donât know what heâs doing. Then I do.
The first time I saw Mom do this was at my basketball championship. Sheâd been diagnosed with Alzheimerâs six months earlier. Sheâd sat in the third row during the game, cheering and clapping when we got a three-pointer (and occasionally, when the other team did). After we won, everyone tramped onto the court, greeting us with hugs and high fives. As the shooter of the winning team, I was lifted onto my teamâs shoulders and tossed about. It was from there that I saw Mom. She was on the edge of the court, frowning at a line on the floor as though it were some sort of intricate puzzle she couldnât figure out. I tapped someone to let me down, but before I could get to her, she shimmied up her skirt and stepped over the line as if it were a waist-high fence. A few people looked, but most were distracted by the commotion on the court. Once over the line, she smiled at me, a little relieved, and gave me a hug. âCongratulations, darling. Great game.â
When I told Jack about it, he told me that for some people, depth perception is one of the first things the brain casts off when it starts to degenerate, making it difficult to tell the difference between flat and raised, high and low. Thatâs the thing about dementia: You can forget for a moment, even an hour. But sooner or later, dementia reminds youâand everyone elseâthat itâs there.
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Before I had Alzheimerâs, I used to listen to a radio competition called Beat the Bomb. Callers who dialed in had the opportunity to play for up to twenty-five thousand dollars. When the game began, the clock would start ticking, and every few seconds, an eerie, prerecorded voice would announce an amount of money. âFive ⦠hundred ⦠dollars. One ⦠thousand ⦠dollars. Five ⦠thousand ⦠dollars.â It kept going up. As soon as the contestant said stop, the money was theirs, but the longer they waited, the more they risked the bomb (buzzer) going off and getting nothing.
When I was sixteen, Jack and I came home one day to find Mom in the garage. The car was running, and she was in the passenger seat with the car windows open. Her head lolled against the open door. I ran to call 911 while Jack dragged her from the car. By the time I got back to them, she was awake. Drowsy, making no sense, but awake.
âIf I donât remember,â she muttered. âWill I have been here at all?â
When the paramedics arrived, I listened as Jack explained that she had been diagnosed with Alzheimerâs and that she was easily confused. She must have thought she was driving somewhere, he said. Or perhaps she thought it was her favorite chair and decided to have a sleep. I wondered if Jack really believed that. As he talked, I stared at Mom, trying to catch her eye. âIs that what happened?â Iâd whispered . âWere you confused?â The fact that she wouldnât look at me told me all I needed to know.
After that, we never left her alone. She had a nurse that stayed with her all day. Dad had already left us, so Jack or I slept by her side at night. After a few months, she went into a nursing home. Sheâd gone downhill so fast that by that point, even if sheâd still wanted to kill herself, she wouldnât have known how. The window had closed.
Most people who want to kill themselves can wake up and decide, You know what? Todayâs not the day. If I feel terrible tomorrow, Iâll do it then. Or the day after. Maybe next year. But the thing about having Alzheimerâs
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