“Yes!” Young Guy exclaims, and I feel a surprising thrill at being the one to provide him with the word.
“Mom has my p-power of attorney, but she’s getting older. And she wants to g-give it to Sarah.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’m just not sure she’ll respect my wishes.”
“Which are?”
He looks at me. “I want to live.”
“Ah,” I say, as though this makes everything clear. “And your sister wants to kill you?”
He blinks, then laughs loudly.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m pretty sure my brother wants to kill me, too.”
Now we both laugh. It’s one of those laughs that starts as a chuckle and winds up in a full-bellied guffaw. I get so lost in it that I startle when he suddenly leans forward in his seat, then falls onto his knees in front of me. My laughter vanishes. He’s so close, I can feel the warmth of his skin on mine.
“Hey, you’ve g-got a…” He reaches for my face, and I forget to breathe. What is he doing? If I leaned forward an inch or two, my lips would touch his. I can’t remember the last time I was this close to someone. Then again, I wouldn’t remember.
“Eye-hair,” he says finally, swiping a hair from my cheek. He balances it on his fingertip for me to see. I get the feeling that “eye-hair” is not the word to describe it, but I am too acutely aware of the proximity of his body to think of the right one. He blows the eye-hair away, then sits back. “Sorry. What did we … what were we s-saying?”
I can’t remember, and I suspect it has nothing to do with the Alzheimer’s. I can still feel his warmth, the burn of his fingertip on my face.
“Uh, was it … your sister?” I ask.
“Oh. Yeah.” He shuffles, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “Sarah’s c-cash-rich, time-poor, and a believer in finding solutions.” His throat works with the effort of speaking. “I just worry what she’ll do down the road, when the next … ‘problem’ p-presents itself.”
He doesn’t need to explain what the next problem could be. I already know. Delusional episodes. Loss of bladder and bowel control. Feeding issues. Catastrophic reactions. DNRs.
“Sarah cares, b-but … I’m not sure that she’d make the same decisions that I would, when it came to the crunch. I don’t want … diapers … the first time I have an accident or to be f-furnished with a chalkboard when my speech deteriorates. I don’t want to be … p-pushed in a chair with wheels when I can still walk.”
This little speech looks like it’s taken an enormous amount of effort. And while I don’t entirely share his convictions, there’s something to be admired about his passion. It might be the fact that it’s difficult for him to speak, or maybe just the pendulum of moods of Alzheimer’s, but as I listen to him talk, my eyes fill.
“At some point, I’m going to have to start letting go of control,” he says. “But I have n-no plans to do it without a fight. And Sarah, I can just see her—Luke’s having trouble dressing himself, let’s p-pay someone to do it for him. Luke’s not doing enough … exercise; let’s schedule some activities. Let’s give him sleeping tablets to help him s-sleep, let’s feed him. No. That’s not what I want. I don’t want to exist. I want to love.”
“Live,” I correct, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
I have to admit, I think he’s right to be wary of handing his affairs to his sister. It’s one of the reasons I don’t want my life to get to that point. As good as Jack’s intentions are, I wouldn’t want him pulling my puppet strings down the road.
“Brothers,” I say with an over-the-top sigh. It’s funny, even though we’ve just been discussing dementia-related stuff, for the last few minutes, it didn’t feel like either of us had dementia. It felt like we were just a guy and a girl, discussing life.
“Luke?”
We both glance at the doorway, where Eric is standing.
“Your doctor is here to see you,” Eric says.
“Oh. Sure.” Young Guy, Luke, rises to his feet.
“Would you like me to take you back to your room, Anna?” Eric asks.
Luke looks at me. He kicks his foot gently against mine—a benign enough gesture that somehow has me blushing. “W-will you be here when I get b-back?”
I glance to where Eric is standing: red-faced, fat and smirking. Then I look back at Luke. “Well,” I say quietly, “I’ve had some pretty tempting offers, but yeah, what the hell, why not?”
To Eric I say, “Thanks but I’m fine right here.”