For its emotional impact, no event of this summer has impressed itself on my psyche so strongly as my visit to a longtime friend who has Alzheimer’s disease. Though this visit lasted only some 15 minutes, it has left me much to reflect on.
Jack and I first met when we began high school together, 55 years ago. In our new small school, we quickly bonded together through common interests in academic achievement and in sports. After graduation from high school, we went to the same college.
From early on, Jack and I were familiar visitors in one another’s homes. I remember his family taking me on my first visit to Canada. My parents and siblings came to know Jack well and recognized his outstanding intellectual talents.
Despite this close association, however, our friendship always had something edgy about it. Perhaps it was a fondness for arguing, shared by both of us. Whatever the reason, we often disagreed, especially as we grew into adulthood and middle age.
On both politics and religion he would take positions at odds with mine, differences not important enough to fracture friendship but sufficient to hinder intimacy. I would have preferred simple friendly exchanges; too often, we would get enmeshed in debates that grew burdensome.
After completing his studies with distinction, Jack went on to the successful career everyone expected him to have as a lawyer with a leading Boston firm. He was blessed in his family life as well, with a vivacious, caring wife and five sons. In time, there were daughters-in-law and grandchildren.
Several years ago, however, family members and friends became aware that Jack was losing his mental sharpness. That led to his retirement from law practice and to a slow but sure decline in his ability to function independently. Eventually his condition required more care than he could receive at home and he recently had to be hospitalized.
As a person who served in the army, Jack qualified for admission to a Veterans Administration hospital where he is receiving first-rate care. On the beautiful Sunday afternoon of my visit, many of the patients were sitting outside the building with family members. Jack’s wife, who visits every other day, had taken him out for an ice cream cone and I had to wait for their return.
When I saw Jack this time, my spontaneous feeling was sadness that it has come to this. As we walked together, his wife holding one of his arms to support him, I the other, I could not but regret the loss of so much competence. Here was one of the smartest persons I have ever known reduced to largely unintelligible utterances. The tragedy of it all!
And yet, his wife assures me, she experiences lighthearted moments with him. Jack still plays the piano and, amazingly enough, remembers some song lyrics. And he seems to appreciate the outings his wife takes him on, such as the ice cream break.
Still I feel deeply sorry for what has happened to Jack and would do anything to reverse his downward trajectory. Would that edgy remarks and uncomfortable debates still marked our exchanges!
Contact with Jack inevitably makes me wonder if I, too, will lose brain function. How can I not fear this dementia that has afflicted some four million Americans, most of them in later life?
And the mystery of it all strikes me anew. Why Jack and not me? Is this blind fate, or does a loving God permit this for some reason unknown to believers? Or, as some theologians and mystics might suggest, does God also suffer in the terrible diseases of his creatures? Can something be going on the mysterious depths of Jack’s soul that eludes the understanding of other people?
Even with my limited insight I can discover some good coming out of this awful experience. Jack’s illness brings out deep spiritual qualities of love and caring from his wife and family. The community of support that surrounds Alzheimer patients testifies to the best in human beings, the way they respond to dire need.
And Jack’s fate, along with that of millions of others, spurs scientists and researchers to work relentlessly to discover how this dread disease incapacitates the human brain. Already they have developed drugs that have proven helpful in mitigating some effects of the disease, though no medication has yet been able to reverse, much less prevent it.
Despite my experience of fear and pity when I am with Jack and others with his disease, visits with them help me appreciate more deeply my own life. Each day, past and present, appears to be more of a gift than ever and provokes my gratitude.
What better can we do than try to accept the present as a gift and to face the future with hope?
Richard Griffin