Years ago, when I finished Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air about an Everest expedition, I was cold for days. I spent an entire night dreaming about glaciers and ice picks.
This morning was similar… I sat down at the computer and found myself surprised that I was able to read my e-mail.
Today’s momentary brain lapse brought to me by the manic reading of:
The spiral into early-onset Alzheimer’s described in this book was so realistic it invaded my brain. I found myself looking around the breakfast table feeling inordinately grateful that I could remember my children’s names.
When my friend Jacqui recommended Still Alice, I thought it was non-fiction. I was surprised, when I picked it up at the library, to discover it was a novel. But really, it may as well have been a memoir. If someone with quickly-advancing dementia could manage to write a book, I imagine this would be it.
Not having dementia, I can’t say for sure. But when I was growing up, we lived with my grandmother as she drifted further and further from reality… and as she went on midnight rambles to help find the neighbor’s imaginary cat. The scenes in Still Alice ring uncomfortably true.