Yesterday Tim and I saw Still Alice, the story of a 50-year old college professor diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. Watching, you're immersed in the loss and fear of this awful disease. Even as it's wrenching, it's also a story of great courage and love.
As remarkable as it was watching the movie, what happened in the theater lobby immediately afterward was even more so. It hadn't been crowded; perhaps a dozen people in all. An elderly couple sat across the aisle from us. The man, frail and stooped, perhaps in his mid-70s, now stands in the lobby with me. Both the woman with him and Tim had gone to use the restrooms. I smiled at him, and he stepped up to me and asked, "Do you have it?"
"Do I have it?" I echoed. I wasn't sure if he realized I'd been in the same movie with him.
"Alzheimer's," he said.
"No, I don't. Do you?"
"Yes, I do."
"I'm sorry. How long ago were you diagnosed?"
"Four years. At first they called it 'cognitive impairment,' but now it's going fast. It's really awful."
"Is the woman with you your wife?" I ask.
"Yes." He starts to cry. He looks toward the restroom, as if he wants to say something before she returns. "Her first husband had it, and he committed suicide." Then I start crying. Tim joins us; he's crying, too.
I get tissues for us from the concession counter. I put my hand on the man's shoulder and say again, "I'm so sorry."
He continues: "I want to do the same thing, but I can't, because of Pat." He looks again toward the restroom, and now Pat is coming toward us. The last thing he says is, "I don't know what to do."
I keep my hand on his shoulder, rubbing, squeezing. What does Pat think has happened? She knows, understands, I'm sure. For a few seconds, it's all four of us crying together.
She shepherds him out to their car; we head to ours.
The only response I can think of, as Tim and I sit silently in the car, is, Just let her love you.
Text and image © 2015 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.