Turn of Mind

This is from the girl, my daughter. The snake wrapped so tenderly around her delicate bones. Oddly enough, she takes after James. For all his height he is somehow insubstantial. Always ten pounds too thin. He doesn’t see it that way, of course. Always running, always swimming, always moving. On days he can’t go out because of excessive rain or snow or cold, he runs up and down the stairs for an hour at a stretch.

I consider her question. I weigh my options, my choices. And make up my mind.

This is a talk we had to have sooner or later, I say. I’ve been putting it off . But since you’re both here, now is as good as anytime.

The girl nods. The boy looks at me. The blond woman keeps her eyes on the table.

Your father doesn’t know. Not yet. So please don’t mention it to him.

We won’t, says the boy. You can count on that. He gives a wry smile when he says this.

It started a while ago. Months. I noticed I was forgetting things. Little things, like where I’d put my keys or my wallet or the box of pasta I’d taken out of the pantry. Then these gaps. One minute I’d be in my office, the next in the Jewel frozen foods section with no recollection of how I’d got there. Then words started to go. I was in the middle of surgery and I forgot the word clamp. I remembered it afterward, driving home. But at the time I had to say, Give me that shiny thing that pinches and holds. I saw my residents exchanging glances. Humiliating.

The boy and girl don’t look shocked. This is good. The hard part is yet to come.

I’ll even make a confession, I say. I don’t know your names. My own children. Your faces are clear—for that I’m grateful. Others blur beyond recognition. Rooms are sealed without doors, without any way in or out. And bathrooms have become extraordinarily elusive.

I’m Fiona, says the girl. And this is your son, Mark.

Thank you. Of course. Fiona and Mark. Well, to make a long story short, I went to the doctor—to Carl Tsien. You know Carl, of course. He asked me some questions, sent me to a specialist at U of C. They have a special clinic there. They call it, without a trace of irony, the Memory Unit.

They ran some tests. You may or may not know, but there is no conclusive way to diagnose Alzheimer’s. It’s mostly a process of elimination. They ran a number of blood labs. Made sure there were no low-lying infections. Eliminated hypothyroidism, depression. Mostly, they asked a lot of questions. And at the end of it all, they didn’t give me much room for hope.

Both my children nod calmly. They’re not crying. They’re not noticeably distressed. It’s the blond woman who reaches over and covers my hand with hers.

Perhaps I’m not being clear, I say. This is a death sentence. The death of the mind. I’ve already given notice at the hospital, announced my retirement. I have started keeping a journal so I have some continuity in my life. But I won’t be able to live on my own for very much longer. And I don’t want to be a burden on you.

The girl reaches out and takes my other hand. This is not comforting, this is awkward, having both my hands held captive by these nameless people. I disengage from both, place my hands safely in my lap.

That must be very scary for you, the girl says.

The boy gives me a half smile. You’re a tough old bird, he says. You’re going to wrestle this disease to the ground and break its arm before it takes you.

You don’t seem surprised.

No, says the girl.

You’ve noticed?

A little hard not to! says the boy.

Shh! says the girl. Actually, this kind of brings us to why we came here today, Mom.

Not only are we not surprised, says the boy, in fact it’s gotten so bad that it’s time to make a change. Sell the house. Move into a more . . . suitable . . . living situation.

What do you mean, sell the house? I ask. This is my home. This will always be my home. When I walked into it twenty-nine years ago— pregnant with you, by the way—I said, at last I found the place I can die in. Just because I mislay my keys every once in a while . . .

It’s not just the keys, Mom, says the boy. It’s the agitation. The aggression. The wandering. Your inability to use the bathroom, take care of basic sanitary needs. Refusing your medications. It’s too much for Magdalena.

Who is Magdalena?

Magdalena. Right here. See? You don’t even remember the woman who lives with you. Who takes care of you. Wonderful care. You don’t even remember that Dad is dead.

Your father is not dead! He’s just at work. He’ll be home—what time is it?—very shortly.

The boy turns to the girl. What’s the use? Let’s just do what we planned. We have all the documentation we need. It’s the right thing. You know it is. We’ve considered all the options—including you moving in here to help Magdalena. That idea was lunacy.

The girl nods slowly.

We could have a trained nurse. Start using the locks we installed on the doors. But that upset her so much, it did more harm than good. And she’s deteriorating so fast. It’s just not safe for her to be in anything but a closely controlled environment.

The girl does not answer. The blond woman abruptly gets up and leaves the room. Neither the girl nor boy seems to notice.