Washington
DC
Last night, in the course of a conversation about how
much we tend to forget as we get older, a friend mentioned her concern that she
might well have Alzheimer’s disease. Her
mother and sister had it. A while ago
she was at training for her work, and the trainer asked her to enter her
password into her computer to begin. Not
only did she not remember the password but she also didn’t remember she even had password. She had to leave the training. When she got back to her office, she realized
that, of course, she had a password and remembered immediately what it was.
As she told me, I didn’t display any
emotion. I asked her some
questions. I wanted to make sure that I
demonstrated empathy by staying with the conversation so that she knew that I
was accepting of her disease and not shocked or about to abandon her. It’s only now that I see that my response was
just the same clinical, professional response that has been so unhelpful for me
all along. I have wanted something more
from others, but I didn’t even offer it to my friend. Perhaps she wouldn’t have wanted anything
more, but I didn’t even give her the opportunity. I didn’t offer her my real empathy. I don’t have much reason to be surprised
about the reactions of others to my disease. And, in fact, there have been more empathetic
and helpful responses than I should have expected.
Alzheimer’s is a common disease. Lots of people have been through this process
before; many are going through it now.
I’m not so special, yet I keep expecting that people will respond to me as
if mine were a unique suffering. And some
do. But as the disease progresses and I
become more typical, as my friends become accustomed to my behavior, as I develop
the usual empty appearance of an Alzheimer’s patient, there will be even fewer
who see me as “special.” I guess I need
to prepare for that , too.
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