Still Alice,and me.

I read this book after several months of it languishing in my "to read" pile. The reason I put off reading it, despite an interest, is that for me the subject matter hits a little too close to the neurons. Alice, the main character has been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's.

At 57, I'm several years into that "OK, what did I do with that?" or "Why did I come in this room?" those things that an allegedly healthy brain tends to ask when it's beginning to age. But there was a closer connection than age-related forgetfulness. My father wad diagnosed with dementia in his late 60s and I remember a tone of fear in his voice when he was getting into the car to drive while in his 50s and saying "I'm starting to forget things." I just chalked it up to age, as I was in my 20s and rarely, if ever, forgot what I was doing or going.
       As my father progressed into the stages of dementia, it became apparent that this was not just some age related situation. My mother, his primary caregiver at the time kept denying it was Alzheimer's perhaps just a series of "mini-strokes. I told her it didn't really matter, it was horrible to see his decline. We both wished more than anything (perhaps she wished even harder) that he would "get his brain back." Sadly, that never happened.
      My mother died before my father, not just due to post-surgical complications, but because, I believe, she was overwhelmed with caregiver stress as this disease progressed. Suggestions for care options were offered, but she continued to deny help. It was an added stressor to an already strained relationship between her and me. Several nights she called me, crying, due to my father's continued descent into a disease that no one deserves, but we are currently powerless to prevent. When I attenpted to calm her via long-distance calls, or even visits, she would brush off my suggestions. Double frustration for both of us.
    Because my father, who possessed a brilliant hungry mind like he passed on to me eventually had that intelligence lost was heart-wrenching. Because he was prone to combativeness (often the reason for my mother's tearful phone calls) after my mother died, my father's physician suggested placement in a nursing facility which had an Alzheimer's unit, and because it was in a small town, my father was pretty well known.
    I wasn't there when he died a few years ago at 83. Part of me had mourned for a long time. I'm sure the family members in the book Still Alice might have experienced that "early mourning" or despair.
    The book was not an easly read, but it was an interesting one and I'm at a point in my life that I wonder what the future holds for me with this specter of dementia feeling ever closer when I lose my train of thought, my vocabulary doesn't come as quickly to my tongue as it did. Stress, aging, dementia. Sometimes it's hard to tell.