How could my Wife have Alzheimer’s? She was only 56.

I feel like I've had it since childhood. So fucking spacey sometimes.

How could she? I don't know, I forget.

[quote] I was googling the Keane brothers mentioned on the Forgotten Stars of the 70s and 80s

See forgot them herself.

[quote] So fucking spacey sometimes.

R1 = Anthony Rapp

[quote] I was googling the Keane brothers mentioned on the Forgotten Stars of the 70s and 80s

She forgot them herself.

The articles behind the paywall, OP. Please cut & paste it.

It’s not behind a paywall for me and I don’t live in the U.S. Please check again.

r6 I'll copy and paste for you. Hold on a minute

It’s a Sunday morning and my wife and I are arguing about the previous night’s dinner party.

“No one would let me talk,” Laurie says.

“What do you mean? Of course they let you talk.”

“No. They’re all just talking constantly and I never get a chance to say anything.”

“But Laurie, that’s what happens at dinner parties. You’ve got eight people fueled by a lot of alcohol and they all are clamoring for the floor. That’s just the way it is.” Related As his Alzheimer’s looms, Charles and Pam Ogletree take one last walk in love For patients, Biogen news is an infusion of hope on Alzheimer’s Signs of early-onset Alzheimer’s: When not to worry, and when to see a doctor

“I didn’t get to speak. I hated it. Why won’t they let me speak?”

I’m puzzled. Laurie was always the life of any get-together: raucous, loud, leading the room from one topic to the next. What was going on?

At another dinner party a few weeks later, I notice Laurie sitting back, silent. “Hey Laurie,” I say in a loud voice. “Anything you’d like to add?” The room quiets and everyone looks at her.

“No,” she says, and sips from her glass of wine.

The next morning we’re arguing again. “No one,” she says, “would let me speak.”

____________

I’m sitting in the living room in 2011, reading.

“He’s coming over with the stuff to do the thing,” Laurie says.

It takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking to me. “What?”

“He’s coming over with the stuff to do the thing.”

“What stuff? What thing? And who is he?”

She glares at me. “You know.” The words are accusatory and full of weight.

I wonder if I am becoming that stereotypical husband who ignores his spouse, just responding “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

“I’m sorry. I must not have been paying attention. Who’s coming over?”

She turns and walks out of the room.

____________

We’ve flown to Washington to visit our oldest daughter, Lauren, at college. We get together for drinks with one of my brothers. “She’s doing the thing pretty soon,” Laurie says.

“What?” my brother asks. “Laurie, seriously, we need to find out what’s going on with your speech. Something’s up.”

Laurie looks shocked, and says, “What do you mean?”

“Your speech, the way you talk. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

She laughs. “Oh, that’s nothing. It’s the beer.”

When Laurie gets up to go to the restroom, I say to my brother, “You’ve been noticing it?”

“Everyone’s been noticing it,” he says.

“I thought it was just me.”

____________

Worried, I reach out to Laurie’s primary care physician, asking her to refer Laurie for tests. She talks to Laurie, who eventually agrees.

When we meet with a neurologist at Massachusetts General Hospital to find out the results, he says Laurie has “primary progressive aphasia of the logopenic variant.”

“What’s that mean?” I ask.

“It’s aphasia” — an inability to communicate — “and it’s specifically word-related. That’s the ‘logo’ part. Laurie’s having trouble finding words. That’s our primary diagnosis.”

Then he says, “And it’s progressive.”

“Progressive?” I ask.

“Meaning it’s going to get worse.”

I’m bewildered and want to know what caused it. Did she have a stroke? Heavy metals, pesticides? He says probably not, but can run more tests to check.

“Well, I think we need to,” I say. “Right, Laurie?” She nods.

“This is just crazy,” I say. “She’s only 56.”

We stand up and the neurologist asks me to stay behind for some paperwork. As Laurie waits outside, he says, “I didn’t want to say it in front of her, but in all likelihood what she has is younger-onset Alzheimer’s. It just started in a unique part of her brain — the left rear lobe — but like all Alzheimer’s, it eventually will spread throughout the entire brain.”

“You need to prepare yourself,” he adds.

Alzheimer’s? I thought that only happened to people in their 80s and 90s. “But she’s only 56,” I repeat. “She’s got her MBA in finance.”

____________

Laurie and I had first met at a punk-rock club in Washington, where I’d moved for work in 1982 after graduating from law school. I was there with friends when she walked in, 5 foot 11, tan, wearing a black miniskirt. I spent the evening glancing her way, occasionally approaching but then backing off, certain she was out of my league. Toward midnight, I finally went up to her and managed to say “Hello.”

Giving me a withering look, she said, “Well, it took you long enough.” I was smitten.

She would turn out to be the wittiest, smartest, and most talkative person I had ever met. And now all of that was fading away.

____________

We’re at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, Maryland, walking into a small conference room to meet with a neurological researcher. Months earlier, Laurie had agreed to be part of his study testing whether a combination of certain dyes in the bloodstream and positron electron tomography imaging could pick up the presence of abnormal amyloid proteins in her brain. This is a marker of Alzheimer’s disease, usually only found in an autopsy.

The researcher is hoping his technique can detect Alzheimer’s before death. We’re hoping he’ll tell us her increasingly apparent aphasia is caused by something else.

We sit down. He picks up a piece of paper, looks at it, and then looks at us. He starts to cry.

____________

Laurie is standing in the middle of our living room, sobbing. I go to her and hold her. I don’t need to ask what’s wrong; I know. We just stand there, hugging.

A few days later, I look in the medicine cabinet at Laurie’s medications, Aricept and Namenda, representing the only two types of Alzheimer’s-related drugs on the market. Neither stops the disease, let alone cures it, but they’re thought to help improve cognition. The containers seem full. Too full.

“Laurie,” I ask, “Have you been taking your pills?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t need them.”

“Yes, you do,” I say. “You need them for your Alzheimer’s.”

“I don’t have Alzheimer’s,” she says.

____________

Laurie comes out the front door along with our youngest daughter, Bryn, to see the new Honda CR-V I’m driving.

“I want to try it,” Laurie says. Bryn and I exchange looks. It’s 2015 and I haven’t let Laurie drive for months, finding one excuse or another. But I reluctantly say OK, and we climb into the car, me in the front passenger seat, Bryn in back. I suggest we go to get lunch at one of our regular places, an easy drive on mostly back roads.

At the first stop sign, I remind her to take a right. She immediately starts to go left. “No!” I say sharply, “The other right!”

She takes the next turn without appearing to think. She seems to be doing fine, and I begin to relax. A quarter mile later, at a light, she asks “Where?”

I point to the left, and she turns that way. At the restaurant, she cruises toward a parking spot right in front. I realize she’s about to hit a car to our left. I reach across and pull the steering wheel down so we swerve right, saying “Laurie, stop. Stop!” She does.

“Let me park it,” I say. She gets out, and I get in.

After lunch, I drive home. Bryn and I have a few minutes alone.

“That was awful,” she says. “She shouldn’t be driving.”

Later, Laurie tells me that “it’s the new car. I was fine with the old one.”

____________

Laurie walks into the apartment, her face ashen. “Is everything OK? Did you get the money?” I ask. She bursts into tears. “It’s not working.”

I stand up, go to her, and hug her. “It’s no big deal. Let’s go down and take a look. Maybe the ATM’s just broken.”

We go across the street. I watch as she puts her card in and types her password. The screen reads “incorrect password.” She tries again and the error message flashes once more. “What’s your password?” I ask.

“Umm.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s our anniversary,” I say. “Try typing that in.” The numbers she presses are nothing close to our anniversary.

“Laurie,” I say, my voice rising. “Pay attention. That’s not your password.” I catch myself and try to cool down. I ask her to let me help, and type in the password. A few seconds later she has $60 in her purse.

____________

I’m sitting in our bedroom and I hear the click of a door shutting. I get up and look around. “Laurie?” There’s no answer. I walk outside to the hallway. No sign of her. I take the elevator to the lobby and see the doorman. “Have you seen Laurie?”

“Not this morning,” he says. I run up the stairs and find her between the second and third floors. “What are you doing here?”

She looks at me, bewildered.

____________

She got her MBA in finance in 1986, shortly after we got married. An ardent feminist, she kept her own name and we gave our children both of our surnames. She wrote, acted in local plays, ran film groups, and threw herself headlong into our children’s lives.

I sit and contemplate how much Laurie has lost. She can no longer write. She can’t even sign her own name. The television’s remote control mystifies her. When we go out for dinner, she can’t read the menu. She no longer showers, seemingly afraid of the water. She wears the same clothes, day after day. Her hair has grown ragged and when the telephone rings, she simply looks at it.

I understood the word “progressive” when her neurologist first diagnosed it. But I realize I never really absorbed it, fooling myself into thinking that however she was would remain the same way. When I’d notice some new diminishment, I’d just reorder my thinking, believing that this was now the new normal.

I now understand none of that’s true. I’ve lost her. And she’ll never come back.

____________

I’m nervous. For months, Lauren, Bryn, and I have been talking about a next step for Laurie. I travel a lot for work; I can’t care for her at home anymore. We’re worried about her wandering. After touring places, we settle on Avita of Needham, a memory care facility. Today, June 29, 2016, is the day she is supposed to move.

But Laurie seems completely unaware.

A care manager we hired to help us is at the apartment. “Laurie,” she says, “Tom needs to go on a long business trip. He’s going to be gone for a while.”

Laurie looks terrified. “Do you feel afraid to be alone?” she asks. Laurie nods.

The care manager continues. “I know a place that’s safe and fun and where you get to play brain games. Doesn’t that sound good?” Laurie nods again. “Would you like to visit with me?” Laurie nods a third time.

We go to the car and after a short drive are walking through the front door of Avita. The executive director greets us. Everything has been carefully staged. She and others gather around Laurie, hugging her and talking and leading her down a corridor and past a locked door. She doesn’t turn around to look at me.

That night in bed I realize she’ll never sleep next to me again. Despair washes over me.

____________

I call frequently to find out how she’s doing, but I don’t visit. The idea is to give her time to adjust, to become acclimated.

After two weeks, I finally come in to see her. I’m waiting for the questions — “Where have you been?” “Why am I here?” “Can I go home now?” — and rehearsing my answer — “This is your home now.” I’m preparing for the tears and anger.

There’s none of that. We visit, have a cup of coffee. I talk; she listens. I walk her back to her room, she sits in a chair, and I leave.

This really is her home now.

____________

Nine months later, Laurie and I are sitting in the living room at Avita. “My mother died yesterday,” I tell her. They had been close. Laurie turned to my mom when the children were first born and she felt out of her depth, wondering how she would ever manage motherhood.

Laurie just looks at me and stares.

____________

It’s been a year and a half, and Avita’s executive director tells me Laurie needs more care than the facility can provide. I am not surprised.

When Laurie first entered, she could manage most everything, only needing some persuasion to take her medication or brush her teeth. Now she’s largely incontinent, increasingly needs help eating, and is unsteady on her feet.

Laurie gets in the car with Bryn and me for another ride to another new home, the Hebrew SeniorLife facility in Roslindale. Where Avita felt homey and calm, HSL — as excellent as it turns out to be — has a more frenetic, institutional feel. We take an elevator to the fourth floor and find her room. She’s placid and uncomplaining, seemingly oblivious to her change of circumstances.

A few weeks later, I sit down with HSL’s medical team to review her case.

“Except for Alzheimer’s, she’s probably healthier than most of us,” the nurse manager says.

It’s true. She takes no medication except for those connected to Alzheimer’s. Yet even though the rest of the folks on her floor are older than her by a generation or more, cognitively she’s one of the worst off. For the most part, they can still speak, tell stories, play bingo and trivia, talk about the football game on TV. Laurie, once so vital, can’t do any of those things.

____________

Lauren, Bryn, and I sit in Hebrew SeniorLife’s family dining room in 2018. We’ve picked up subs for lunch and gather around a table, feeding Laurie her lunch. She looks at us, her face brightening. “Who am I?” asks Lauren. Laurie gives no response. “Am I Salem?” That’s one of our cats. “Am I Bryn?”

“B-b-b,” Laurie says.

We’re familiar faces. But does she know why? Does she know I’m her husband? That Lauren and Bryn are her children? I don’t think so.

____________

Three or four times a week, I have lunch with Laurie. I sit next to her and cut up her food, navigating forks and spoons to her mouth, trying not to spill her soup. After the kind of “open your mouth” urging I once gave the kids, she’ll take a bite and chew.

Meat loaf is today’s offering. Laurie takes a bite or two but I notice she’s not really chewing. Instead, she tucks the food away in her cheek. I offer some cranberry juice, usually a favorite, but she swallows only a little.

I look at her closely. Her hair is almost entirely black. Her face is remarkably unlined. I stroke her hair and she pays me no mind, never glancing my way. She’s here, I think, but not really here at all.

____________

I’m out of town for a family wedding, having brunch with Lauren.

“Something’s changed with your mom,” I say. I describe how her eating has become more tentative. “Plus, she’s losing weight.”

“Should I come up to Boston?” Lauren lives and works in New York City.

“Probably not,” I say, not wanting her to take an unneeded vacation day. “Let’s see what the doctor says.”

The next day I’m back in Boston. Bryn and I walk into the dining room at Hebrew SeniorLife, ready to have lunch with Laurie. We scan the room and can’t find her. I see her aide. “Where is she?” I ask.

“We couldn’t get her out of bed today,” the aide says.

Bryn and I go to see her. Laurie glances at Bryn and smiles with what might be some recognition. Otherwise, she seems only semiconscious. When the doctor comes, he tells me she’s not taking in any liquids.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Seven to ten days,” he says.

I feel like I’ve been hit in the gut.

He says they could give her fluids intravenously, or put a tube down her throat to feed her. Years earlier, the girls and I had talked about such a moment. Back then we had decided we wouldn’t take any extraordinary measures. That decision, once abstract, now seems almost unconscionable. How can I let her die?

There are tears in my eyes now and I say, “No, I don’t think we should do anything. Just keep her comfortable.”

I call Lauren and tell her she should plan to come up in a few days. The next day Laurie seems fine, resting easily, but the following morning her breathing is labored.

It’s been seven years since Laurie was diagnosed, almost three years since she went to Avita and 14 months since she was admitted to Hebrew SeniorLife. Day after day, the disease progressed almost imperceptibly. But now it’s moving too fast.

The charge nurse warns me Lauren should come. Now.

Thank you, R8. I was willing to do it if it definitely couldn’t be read. Much appreciated.

____________

“Alzheimer’s proceeds slowly, almost invisibly, on its destructive course. It’s like the transition from summer to fall,” I say, looking out at familiar faces at Boston’s Old South Church. “The green leaves turn red or yellow or orange, but we never actually see them change. It’s just that, one day they’re green and suddenly, they’re not.”

“But while leaves turn color over a brief period of time, Alzheimer’s takes years. And that amount of time, those long, long years, sometimes makes it hard to remember the days when the leaves were green, hard to remember the woman we all knew.”

My voice breaks. It’s true. The last seven years have been so overwhelming that I find myself hard-pressed to remember what came before. What was life like before neurologists and researchers and memory care facilities, before halting speech and blank stares?

I sift through photos. The two of us walking in a field. Laurie beaming at our wedding. Her driving a car, sunglasses on, turning with a slight smile for the camera. Catching up with her best friend from childhood. A family Christmas card. She and Bryn mugging for the camera. Lauren’s high school graduation. These are the memories that I want to hold on to, the days when her mind sparkled, her smile was bright, and the future beckoned.

----- Tom Keane is a writer in Boston

You're welcome, r15.

My mom is dying of early-onset Alzheimer's and I can't bring myself to read the actual piece ...

This was Laurie’s obituary. She died in March 2019.

Very sad.

OP thank you for a poignant and thought-provoking but terrifying read.

That brought tears to my eyes.

Damn. This makes me feel better about being alone. I don’t have ever to worry about losing anyone.

I’ve heard of a case of early onset Alzheimer’s where the guy was diagnosed at 29, which is astounding and incredibly sad.

Terribly sad… the wife of an old friend died of early onset Alzheimer’s at age 57–I felt like I was reading her story.

Save all your pain meds!

For, you know...

It took almost eleven years for my mom. Around 2/3 of the way through, late one evening I saw a light on in the back of the house. Checking it out, I discovered Mama just sitting in front of a mirror, looking at her own face as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle.

"Mama, are you OK? It's late."

She looked at me with the saddest eyes filled with the worst emotion neither of us had words for. Then the seven most heart-rending words I have ever heard uttered.

"I... used to be smart, didn't I?"

Jesus Fucking Christ. My brilliant, kind mother.

R26 that’s soul-shattering. So sorry for all you went through, mate. Sounds like you did so much and suffered so much for your Mum.

Not speaking for anyone else here, but if this happened to me (R23 I’m 29 now...brrr), then I’d just want to be put out of my misery early. Like the minute the light goes out, just shut down the rest of the building. I don’t want the indignity of years of decline.

Why is this happening so much, these days? Is it actually the pesticides in our food, or the 4G/5G, or something?

I'm so sorry, R26. I'm sure you did all you could.

I thank god every day my irascible,irritating 79 year old mother doesnt have Alzheimers or dementia . Hell,shes in better health than I am. I couldnt imagine going through that for years. Its hard to type as the keyboard is blurry !

It killed my Mother. My Mom was one of those people who could remember minute details of her life over very long periods. She didn’t know who any of us were for 2 years before she died. My Father would go to her memory unit every day and sit with her. He never overcame his grief when Alzheimer’s ended his 63 year marriage. It was horrific.

I don't want to write a tome (I'm r16) but I will say:

For me, the worst thing about losing a mother to early-onset Alzheimer's -- or one of the worst -- is that she is already gone, but I can't pinpoint exactly when I lost her, and there was no real opportunity to say a final goodbye. Not really. We traveled a lot during her declining years, and I treasure those moments, but one day, or year, I had a mother, and then I woke up and all of a sudden realized that she had left. It seemed surreal. I can't explain it any better than that.

The best analogy I can think of: several years ago, I moved abroad for work. She had not yet been diagnosed, but looking back, there were signs. She drove me to the airport and was very emotional, and I was emotional, too. (Yes, I was a grown man in my thirties -- MARY!!) After I checked my bags, we hugged goodbye, and I turned to walk toward security. I only made it a few steps before turning back and hugging her again, blubbering, and saying goodbye a second time. And then I made it a little bit further before turning back, and then a little bit further. I said goodbye to her six times before finally getting into the security line, wiping away my tears.

Now, I want to go back and hug her one more time, and say goodbye that seventh and final time, and it's too late. I turned back and she's gone.

My good friend’s sweetheart of a mother came down with it at 50. It’s a terrifying and debilitating illness for the entire family. She was so full of life, active, attractive, and hilarious. Then suddenly she became a shell of her former self. I don’t wish it on my wort enemy.

I'm hoping my recent forgetfulness, just losing words and shit is coronavirus and not Alzheimer's or maybe coronavirus is as bad. All I know is my brain is not right

St. John’s Wort

Thanks, R27. That means so much to me, truly.

Though there were so many (loss of friends, decline in professional/employment/income opportunities, constant stress, fear, etc), she deserved *every* sacrifice I ever made for her, and more.

Doing it for my Dad now, and it means everything to me to come out on the other side knowing I could not have done one thing more for those two people. Sadness I can handle, but heavy guilt? Do not want.

Hats off. R26 is a courageous generous soul, and a truly special person in this world. There aren’t enough like him, worth their weight in gold. To give up your time and your well being and your career and your friends to do that...wow. Though the praise may fall empty and feel like cold comfort coming from someone who hasn’t been through it, hopefully at least it expresses my immense respect and admiration.

Don’t think I could be so moral. For me, if it comes down to guilt or pain in caring for someone who didn’t know who I was or who they were or what was happening...I’m honestly not sure which road I’m taking. I wasn’t raised religious, I have a history of depression and I’m sort of a nihilist, and I come from a family to whom I don’t connect, so maybe that’s what’s making the answer ambivalent for me. DGMW, I would feel guilty about leaving a person with Alzheimer’s in the care of someone else or the state, but the fact that they wouldn’t know the difference anyways would make me think twice about hurting my own life and every other of my loved ones by doing the caring myself.

Brutally, I just don’t think someone like me has the heart or the guts or the capacity to take on care and responsibility for someone who has lost all sense of self; same way I know I don’t have it in me to have a kid, and make all the sacrifices to take care of them the way they deserve. The only person I could maybe do that for is my little sister (knock on wood that never happens), and then I think the pain and fear of it would kill me before it did her.

At the present time, I assist with the care of a non-dementia-having relatively-healthy elder (my grandmother, in her mid-80s), and that has enough challenges every day. All she has is arthritis, a few mobility challenges, and the usual gripes or depressions about being old (“why do I have to be retired and slow-moving and do boring low-energy things all the time?” etc.), and I find even that so frustrating and hard to cope with. She occasionally loses her temper and forgets words or tasks here and there, but our Doctor says it’s not Alzheimer’s, just normal age-related decline. So I’m on easy practise Mode compared to what amazing R26 manages.

Do what you can to prevent Alzheimer's.

Exercise at least 150 minutes a week.

Eat a Mediterranean diet — limit red meat and processed foods.

Keep your weight down.

Get enough quality sleep every night.

Avoid risk factors for cardiovascular disease: Smoking. High blood pressure. Diabetes. Obesity. The same blood vessels that get diseased and cause heart attacks or stroke can cause dementia because they limit oxygen and blood flow to the brain.

Stay socially and mentally active. (Posting on DL counts.)

Another citation for R38.

One of the reasons I fear COVID is that it could lead to Alzheimer's later in life (maybe?)

And another citation for R38.

R40 yes, I read something similar. It makes sense, due to the vascular construction factor.

Some are saying that the mRNA vaccines have a similar effect in some cases, though, which is really worrying also. Seems like we can’t win.

My grandmother had early onset Alzheimer's back before people really knew what it was, and most people considered her crazy and stupid. The only job she could get was as a cafeteria lady at a hospital, and that was because a close relative pulled some strings. It was a very slow decline, I'd say it must have been 20 to 25 years, and she made it to 72 which doctors said was pretty amazing. Terrible quality of life, though. She forgot how to work her electric stove one night and tried to light it as if it were an old gas stove and caught her clothes on fire. She was fine but what a close call that was.

My stepfather went from being a vibrant university professor in mathematics to an empty husk in 5 years after being diagnosed with early-onset at age 60. At 65 he turned violent and was put in a memory care facility. Mercifully, he died within a few months. Both of his parents had the disease, but died much older. No insight to share, just that it's a tragic way to live out one's life, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

Seems to happen to smart vivacious active people a lot, doesn’t it? Seemingly never a limited dull shut-in who gets it.

I fear getting it and living alone.

I would become a burden on some distant relative and eventually wind up in a shitty nursing home.

Those terrible years between diagnosis and death were mitigated for my mother by family and friends who were willing to help with her care. I am unpartnered and don't see that changing, and while I have friends, they are scattered across the country.

Research is now looking into blood-brain barrier /leakage being responsible for dementia progression to Alzheimers. It has caused doubts among researchers about the earlier hypothesis of the causes of dementia.

Same here, R46. Well, sans the friends part, anyway.

You know, I find it interesting how the same people who always left work early (leaving childless unpartnered me to pick up the slack) to attend all their children's ballgames, recitals, and cheer competitions; who left work because said children had thrown up at school or had their tonsils removed--I NEVER bitched about it, but these people always told me "You'd understand...[italic]if you had children.[/italic] They'd also drop social plans at the drop of a hat to drive three times zones away to pick up a rescue Italian greyhound. Laudable on their parts, imo.

But when my parents began taking up too much of my time, I was dropped by one friend after the next. I would get slanted comments from the same co-workers whose asses I had covered for years while they did child stuff.

At this point I feel like the fourth voyage of Sindbad, where when his wife died Sindbad was lowered into the sarcophagus with her, per local custom. I am alive, yet entombed already, cut off from all.

If I were a classic country song, it'd be called "Who's Gonna Be There to Wipe *Mah* Ass When Mah Mind Goes Slush?"

I don't know if I should read that article. Both sides of the family, at least the last generation were riddled with dementia. My mother had Alzheimer's (late onset; I took care of her for 7 years), my father had dementia, maternal aunt also had Alzheimer's, maternal uncle had some form of dementia, and two paternal uncles, as well. And those are the ones I know of. I don't know the exact diagnoses for the aunts and uncles since they were in Europe and our contact was limited. I can only say I hope it skips a generation since I didn't hear about the grandparents losing their minds.

Soap fans may know actor David A. Gregory. He played Ford on ONE LIFE TO LIVE until the show went off the air in 2012. His father was 58 when he was diagnosed with cognitive impairment. He’s now 65. David recently gave this speech to the Alzheimer’s Association of Cincinnati.