The Notebook - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,49
too, for when I tapped on her window, she turned to me and said, “Oh God, what’s happening to me? Please help me.” A knot twisted in my stomach, but I dared not think the worst.
Six days later the doctor met with her and began a series of tests. I did not understand them then and I do not understand them now, but I suppose it is because I am afraid to know. She spent almost an hour with Dr. Barnwell, and she went back the next day. That day was the longest day I ever spent. I looked through magazines I could not read and played games I did not think about. Finally he called us both into his office and sat us down. She held my arm confidently, but I remember clearly that my own hands were shaking.
“I’m so sorry to have to tell you this,” Dr. Barn-well began, “but you seem to be in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. . . .”
My mind went blank, and all I could think about was the light that glowed above our heads. The words echoed in my head: the early stages of Alzheimer’s . . .
My world spun in circles, and I felt her grip tighten on my arm. She whispered, almost to herself: “Oh, Noah . . . Noah . . .”
And as the tears started to fall, the word came back to me again: . . . Alzheimer’s ...
It is a barren disease, as empty and lifeless as a desert. It is a thief of hearts and souls and memories. I did not know what to say to her as she sobbed on my bosom, so I simply held her and rocked her back and forth.
The doctor was grim. He was a good man, and this was hard for him. He was younger than my youngest, and I felt my age in his presence. My mind was confused, my love was shaking, and the only thing I could think was:
No drowning man can know which drop of water his last breath did stop; . . .
A wise poet’s words, yet they brought me no comfort. I don’t know what they meant or why I thought of them.
We rocked to and fro, and Allie, my dream, my timeless beauty, told me she was sorry. I knew there was nothing to forgive, and I whispered in her ear. “Everything will be fine,” I whispered, but inside I was afraid. I was a hollow man with nothing to offer, empty as a junked stovepipe.
I remember only bits and pieces of Dr. Barnwell’s continuing explanation.
“It’s a degenerative brain disorder affecting memory and personality . . . there is no cure or therapy. . . .
There’s no way to tell how fast it will progress . . . it differs from person to person. ...I wish I knew more. . . .
Some days will be better than others. ...It will grow worse with the passage of time. . . . I’m sorry to be the one who has to tell you. . . .”
I’m sorry . . .
I’m sorry . . .
I’m sorry . . .
Everyone was sorry. My children were broken-hearted, my friends were scared for themselves. I don’t remember leaving the doctor’s office, and I don’t remember driving home. My memories of that day are gone, and in this my wife and I are the same.
It has been four years now. Since then we have made the best of it, if that is possible. Allie organized, as was her disposition. She made arrangements to leave the house and move here. She rewrote her will and sealed it. She left specific burial instructions, and they sit in my desk, in the bottom drawer. I have not seen them. And when she was finished, she began to write. Letters to friends and children. Letters to brothers and sisters and cousins. Letters to nieces, nephews, and neighbors. And a letter to me.
I read it sometimes when I am in the mood, and when I do, I am reminded of Allie on cold winter evenings, seated by a roaring fire with a glass of wine at her side, reading the letters I had written to her over the years. She kept them, these letters, and now I keep them, for she made me promise to do so. She said I would know what to do with them. She was right; I find I enjoy reading bits and pieces of them just as she used to.