Shattering

If you're not careful, you start to see signs everywhere.

For instance: Before going for a run today, I did my usual Saturday morning thing of waking up late and watching TV over breakfast. I caught a surprisingly decent film on one of the movie channels. Proof features Gwyneth Paltrow (less annoying than usual) as the 27-year-old daughter of a math genius/professor (Anthony Hopkins) whose mind has slipped, due to age, dementia, Alzheimer's, all three, or some other mental disorder (it's never specified).

For another instance (yes, this will make sense by the end): After the run, I went to Laney's apartment again, re-shooting the scene in Monty's short film (that student film I told you about last week). While hanging out afterwards, I watched part of the tearjerker The Notebook because Monty wanted to incorporate it into his storyline. (If you're not familiar with the storyline, the next sentence is going to be a spoiler. Fair warning.) The titular notebook is one written by an old woman with Alzheimer's, filled with the story of her meeting and falling in love with her husband, who is reading it to her to remind her who he is, who she is, who they are together.

My aunt and uncle have been married for 35 years. Three weeks ago, I saw them for the first time in two years. They chose not to come to my graduation in 2007 because they felt they wouldn't be able to see my father without making a scene. (There's a long and boring history to this.) I felt horrible every time I talked to them after that, unable to let go of the disappointment and hurt. It didn't help that it would take 2-3 emails to get a response, or that my birthday and holiday gifts to them sometimes didn't get acknowledged unless I called them. (Also part of the long and boring history.) After several months, I stopped trying.

But traveling long distances usually makes me think about death, and what I might regret the most if, say, the plane I was on crashed over the Pacific somewhere. Number 1? Not making up with the people who were second parents to me, who gave so generously of their money on a minute's notice, who took care of me and bigbro during the summers when we were kids, who instilled in me and embodied the values I hold dearest now. So I called them for the first time in months and arranged a visit.

I noticed while I was there that my aunt, who is 72, was having memory problems. She said about half a dozen times that it was a shame I was leaving after only two days. She didn't remember the location of my mother's business trip that weekend, and seemed surprised all over when I told her for the second time. I told her half a dozen times in two days that I was mildly allergic to milk, and half a dozen times, she asked me if I wanted milk, or cereal with milk.

My uncle mentioned that my aunt had been having memory problems, and I acknowledged that I had observed that. But I didn't think it was that bad yet. My maternal grandmother had fairly severe dementia before she died in her late 80s, and would forget things a few minutes after the fact. She also hid money and other items, driving my aunt crazy. My aunt and uncle never put my grandmother in a nursing home, and taking care of her for the last few years literally turned my aunt's hair gray.

I was in college at the time. If I could go back, with any wherewithal at all, I would insist on professional care. My aunt grew old, taking care of her mother.

The past few days, my aunt's been on my mind, and after seeing various clips from The Notebook tonight, I felt compelled to call her and my uncle. It's Saturday morning in Tacoma, and as fate would have it, my aunt was having a memory episode when I called. I could hear her sobbing in the background, under the delusion that my mother, her sister, had stolen her jewelry. "She took it!" my aunt cried. "She stole it all!"

Clearly under enormous strain, my uncle confessed that they had gone to the doctor, who diagnosed her with dementia. "She's on medication for dementia and Alzheimer's," he said, "but I don't know how it'll work. I just hope she doesn't go too fast."

"It's hard, hk," he continued. "We had a lot of plans, your aunt and I, to go here and there and do this and that, you know, after I retired. But I don't know now."

She usually had an episode every day, he said, and he didn't know how long he could continue working, or when he would need to get some help for her. "I don't want to put her in a home," he said, and it must have been breaking his heart to say that, because my heart broke to hear it, "but ... I don't know."

I encouraged him to tell my mother (it's difficult, since my aunt seems to regard my mother as a thief and betrayer), and to look into home care soon, because he needs the support. Then I asked if I could talk to her.

"Sure, hold on," he replied, and put down the phone.

The next thing I heard was: "No! You're the one who hid my jewelry from me! You're the one who moved it!"

I could hear my uncle making soothing sounds, but my aunt burst out again between sobs, "No! I don't want to talk to anyone! Get away from me! Get away from me!"

My uncle came back on the line. "She's convinced I moved her jewelry," he sighed, somewhere between sorrow and exasperation, "when she was the one who moved it last night."

A few minutes later, after giving what encouragement and support I could, I hung up. And then I opened the laptop and wrote this entry.