On March 5, 10 days before my beloved father died in my arms, I sat by his bedside trying to wrangle my wildly racing thoughts into a poem: “Hovering” The balance is so delicate at this time, I can see the line hovering between here and not, too many things forgotten to function beyond focused breath, the act of death defiance, the science of life evaporating in plain sight, the fight not to accept the unenviable inevitable. There is no easy way to lose someone you love. Grief is an infinitely heartbreaking and profound experience, and until you’ve experienced it firsthand, it’s nearly impossible to comprehend in magnitude.
I lost my mother to cancer nearly 20 years ago, and while the ache of her death has mellowed over time, the cognitive dissonance of her absence still occasionally tricks me into picking up the phone and trying to call her and share a story I know she’d appreciate more than anyone else. But as difficult as it may be to wrap your head around any kind of loss, Alzheimer’s disease presents its own unique challenge: the pain of losing someone while he or she is still alive. As a writer, and someone who considers communication a superpower, I find it immensely frustrating how difficult it is to describe the surreal, mind-bending storm of emotions that come from witnessing a person lose the belongings, qualities and capabilities that once defined them.
As lost phones, words and keys devolve into lost senses of reality, direction and mobility, it can f.