IN A WAY, this is a love story. Not the classic kind, with the fair-haired delusional damsel in distress, who is rescued by the handsome narcissistic prince, and then they live happily ever after. This is a medical love story, with the dark-haired middle-aged dame in distress, who is rescued many times—first by the chivalrous neurologist, then by the petite surgeon, followed by the spiffy oncologist and, finally, by the other, younger surgeon. And although none of them live together, the dark-haired middle-aged dame survives and limps happily ever after.
As with many medical love stories, the beginning is hard to pin down. Diseases are cunning creatures—they can incubate and mutate for years. Mine certainly did—both of them. Although I’ll never know the exact moment that Parkinson’s penetrated my brain or cancer invaded my breast, I know in my heart I was sick during the five years leading up to my diagnoses. I know, because that’s when things began to change for me and my family. That’s when the stranger surreptitiously moved into our lives. I was thirty-eight years old.
At first, we only caught fleeting glimpses of the stranger. Her tiny intrusions into my happiness were easily missed or misconstrued. Back then, she was still unpacking her belongings and just getting to know us. She had yet to unleash the full fury of her rage and the depth of her despair. But she dropped hints: brief bouts of depression, flashes of anger, hurtful accusations, petty resentments. And it only got worse with each passing year, no matter what measures I took to evict her.
This stranger had a stranglehold on my family, affecting each of us in different ways. I was trapped in her tyranny and riddled with guilt and self-loathing. Bergen was compassionate, accommodating, and fiercely protective of Naomi. And although Naomi tried to deflect and appease the stranger, she fell into a protracted funk—weighed down by the discord and dejection and a secret she kept locked away.
I hate thinking about that time in my life—what was happening to me, who I was becoming. But most of all, I hate that I hurt people I love. Which is why, if dementia ever begins devouring my mind, I hope the first memories to go are of the Bad Old Days.