Still Alice Page 0,80
Conference would have been enormous for someone without Alzheimer’s disease. For someone with Alzheimer’s, it was beyond enormous. She managed to function for some time afterward on the adrenaline high, the memory of the applause, and a renewed confidence in her inner status. She was Alice Howland, brave and remarkable hero.
But the high wasn’t sustainable, and the memory faded. She lost a little of her confidence and status when she brushed her teeth with moisturizer. She lost a bit more when she tried all morning to call John with the television remote control. She lost the last of it when her own unpleasant body odor informed her that she hadn’t bathed in days, but she couldn’t muster up the courage or knowledge she needed to step into the tub. She was Alice Howland, Alzheimer’s victim.
Her energy depleted with no reserve to draw upon, her euphoria waned, and the memory of her victory and confidence stolen, she suffered under an overwhelming, exhausting heaviness. She slept late and stayed in bed hours after waking. She sat on her couch and cried without specific reason. No amount of sleep or crying replenished her.
John woke her from a dead sleep and dressed her. She let him. He didn’t tell her to brush her hair or teeth. She didn’t care. He hurried her into the car. She leaned her forehead against the cold window. The world outside looked bluish gray. She didn’t know where they were going. She felt too indifferent to ask.
John pulled into a parking garage. They got out and entered a building through a door in the garage. The white fluorescent lighting hurt her eyes. The wide hallways, the elevators, the signs on the walls: RADIOLOGY, SURGERY, OBSTETRICS, NEUROLOGY. Neurology.
They entered a room. Instead of the waiting room she expected to see, she saw a woman sleeping in a bed. She had swollen, closed eyes, and IV tubing taped to her hand.
“What’s wrong with her?” whispered Alice.
“Nothing, she’s just tired,” said John.
“She looks terrible.”
“Shh, you don’t want her to hear that.”
The room didn’t look like a hospital room. It contained another bed, smaller and unmade, next to the one the woman was sleeping in, a large television in the corner, a lovely vase of yellow and pink flowers on a table, and hardwood floors. Maybe this wasn’t a hospital. It could be a hotel. But then, why would the woman have that tube in her hand?
An attractive young man came in with a tray of coffee. Maybe he’s her doctor. He wore a Red Sox hat, jeans, and a Yale T-shirt. Maybe he’s room service.
“Congratulations,” whispered John.
“Thanks. You just missed Tom. He’ll be back this afternoon. Here, I got everyone coffee and a tea for Alice. I’ll go get the babies.”
The young man knew her name.
The young man returned rolling a cart carrying two clear plastic, rectangular tubs. Each tub contained a tiny baby, their bodies entirely swaddled in white blankets and the tops of their heads covered in white hats, so that only their faces showed.
“I’m going to wake her. She wouldn’t want to sleep through you meeting them,” said the young man. “Honey, wake up, we have visitors.”
The woman woke up reluctantly, but when she saw Alice and John, an excitement entered her tired eyes and enlivened her. She smiled, and her face seemed to snap into place. Oh my, that’s Anna!
“Congratulations, baby,” said John. “They’re beautiful,” and he leaned down over her and kissed her forehead.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You look great. How are you feeling, okay?” asked John.
“Thanks, I’m okay, just exhausted. Ready, here they are. This is Allison Anne, and this little guy is Charles Thomas.”
The young man handed one of the babies to John. He lifted the other baby, the one with a pink ribbon tied to its hat, and presented it to Alice.
“Would you like to hold her?” asked the young man.
Alice nodded.
She held the tiny, sleeping baby, her head in the crook of her elbow, her bum in her hand, her body up against her chest, her ear against her heart. The tiny, sleeping baby breathed tiny, shallow breaths through tiny, round nostrils. Alice instinctively kissed her blotchy pink, pudgy cheek.
“Anna, you had your babies,” said Alice.
“Yes, Mom, you’re holding your granddaughter, Allison Anne,” said Anna.
“She’s perfect. I love her.”
My granddaughter. She looked at the baby with the blue ribbon in John’s arms. My grandson.
“And they won’t get Alzheimer’s like I did?” asked Alice.
“No, Mom, they won’t.”
Alice inhaled deeply, breathing in the scrumptious smell of her beautiful