by Ralph Bowden
*****
Construction went ahead with no letup all summer. Every day, the noise of trucks, air compressors, nailers, concrete finishers and saws, battered Ed. His thoughts became ever looser and less connected, as if the noise was destroying his brain circuitry. He could feel the disintegration progress, though he struggled to hide it and hang on.
Marge noticed. “I know you’re not a talker, but these days you never say anything. Can’t you even grumble and complain?”
The truth was, he couldn’t afford to say much for fear he would expose himself. At first, he tried to tell himself he was just in a rut, and not exercising his brain in new channels. That was bad enough for someone who’d always been able to learn whatever he needed – from masonry to computers. But if he was honest, he knew it was more, and worse. He couldn’t read and concentrate or focus. The news didn’t make sense any more. Who was this Putin fellow? Where was Yeltsin? Sometimes he would fade out and forget why he was so upset. While he always came back after such episodes, he was terrified that the next time he might not.
What to do? The responsible action, Marge’s certain recommendation, would be to go to some neurologist, suffer through a battery of tests, be told he had Alzheimers, and go on pills for the resulting depression. Marge would become his caregiver. Could anything be worse? Well, yes: being institutionalized after he got so bad Marge couldn’t handle him. Why should this be happening now? He was only 63. His father had died of a stroke at 80, but was clear-headed until the last, despite a horrible diet and lifelong smoking. His mother had lasted on until 88, also clear as a bell until pneumonia took her away. But neither of them had to suffer the stress of having their world and values attacked at close range.
