Without the paper to tear up or something to move from where it belongs he often paces from one end of the house to the other, as if each time he’s somewhere different.Ībout four months ago, after the other books were taken away, I found a first edition hardback copy of Jonathan Franzen’s collection of essays, How to be Alone , in a box of my old stuff. Some objects, like the model car of the Corvette he had when he could still drive, or the photo of him and all his seven brothers and sisters, are spared, suggesting there’s a method to his work. It’s interesting to watch what information his brain has completely erased (my name and relation, why the locked door won’t come open) and what still remains (how to shoot pool). I had to help my mother move all the books she kept for years in the kitchen because Dad would pick them from the shelf and tear the pages out one by one, often counting aloud in numbers that he somehow remembered in the correct order. The appropriate response to a ringing phone is shouting. The rugs aren’t floor coverings any more, but mazes that he can trace by tiptoeing along the edge. He often can’t remember how sitting in a chair traditionally works, but turning the chair upside down makes total sense. When my father lost his memory to dementia, everything in the house around him became new.
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