First thing Friday morning, my butt is in the squeaky green leather seats of Dr. Mirza’s waiting room. I’ve done as much research as I can on Alzheimer’s online. I need to talk to the doctor with all my questions and concerns. My dad now has medical power of attorney over my mom, and apparently he included me in the document after I decided to move back home. I called and scheduled an appointment right after the incident yesterday morning, because I need a better idea of what I’m dealing with.

Since I’ve been back, my morning ritual has been to go for a run while my dad gets ready for work. That ensures I’ve returned before he has to leave, and my mom doesn’t have to be by herself. Yesterday morning, while I was out and my dad was in the shower, Mom got up and turned the alarm back on. I’m still not sure what was going through her head at the time, but as a result, I set the damn thing off when I returned from my run.

Mom ran from the bedroom and didn’t recognize me. She screamed, gripping the phone with white-knuckled hands. I got the alarm turned off, but when the security company called, she told them there was an intruder. Dad ran dripping from the shower to see what the hysterics were about. In an attempt to calm her down, I waited on the porch for the police to arrive. They talked to my dad first, then my mom, who at some point recognized me and was embarrassed and crying.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she repeated over and over. “It was dark.”

Dr. Mirza introduces himself with a handshake, and I note that his hands are extraordinarily soft. How does someone who must wash his hands as often as he does have hands that soft? He leads me to his office and sits in the seat next to me instead of behind his desk. I expect his office to smell like the disinfectant of a patient room, but there’s a soft jasmine note in the air. He must use a ton of hand lotion.

“It was good of you to set up this appointment,” Dr. Mirza says. “It’s so much better when the whole family is involved and knows what to expect. How long are you visiting your family?”

“Actually, my dad asked that I move here to help take care of my mom. So I guess the plan is for me to be here for as long as she needs me.”

Dr. Mirza hesitates, the space between his brows twitching with concern before it’s wiped clean of any emotion.

“It is not my place to judge or critique you or your father’s actions. However, I do hope to provide you with information so that you can help him make informed decisions, no matter how hard those decisions might be.”

“Yes, that’s what I want,” I tell him, and proceed to share about what I’ve noticed in the past two weeks. Dr. Mirza nods at appropriate times, but otherwise allows me to get it all out. Being able to discuss all the difficulties we’ve had, just in the span of a few days, is therapeutic in and of itself.

“Parker, except for her dementia, your mother is in excellent health,” Dr. Mirza says slowly, as if there’s hidden meaning behind those words.

“That’s great.” One less thing to worry about.

“People diagnosed can often live half a dozen or more years, and that’s with patients who were diagnosed after age sixty-five. Your mother is in her fifties. She could conceivably live for another twenty years with this disease.”

Oh. Shit. Now I get what he was trying to tell me.

“You have her on that patch, though,” I say, looking for any possible straws to grasp. “That’s supposed to help, right?”

“It can’t stop or reverse the damage. All we can hope is that it slows down its progress. I’ve mentioned this to your father, but there are caregivers who specialize in Alzheimer’s patients. As wonderful as it is that you want to help, and I’m not saying you can’t, at this stage she needs someone with her at all times for her safety. Are you honestly considering quitting your work to tend to your mother full-time for the foreseeable future?”

“You sound like you’re trying to talk me out of it.” I try to laugh like it’s a joke, but the reality of what he’s saying is pelting me like softball-sized hail during an Oklahoma hail storm. Plus, Dad only mentioned having me around. He knows that I’m trying to find a full-time job, but said nothing about her needing around-the-clock care.

“I’m about to say something, not as a doctor, but as your mother’s friend, and someone who has spoken with her at length over the years about her love for her family. I hope I’m not out of line, and I apologize if I offend you.”

“Please, go ahead.”

“It would kill your mother to know you were planning on putting your own life on hold indefinitely to care for her. When you got your engineering degree, she was so proud, she told everyone in the office how smart you were and how you were going to change the world one day. All that mattered to her was that you were happy and doing what you loved.”

My sinuses burn as I fight back tears. He’s basically telling me everything Mom said on Wednesday over her salted-not-sugared cookies, but hearing it confirmed takes a piece of my heart and stomps all over it. All this time she’s been happy that I’m happy, when really I’ve been sleepwalking through my life. Wasting the last eight years and not having anything, even joy, to show for it.

“But I don’t want her to be alone. And I don’t want her to forget about me.”

“She won’t be alone. She has your father. She’ll have caregivers who understand the disease and know the best ways to get her through her day. And in the meantime, call her. Video chat. Visit. Write her letters. This is tough, but I’ve got to be honest with you.” He pauses to hand me a tissue. The lump in my throat has gotten too large and only my tears release it. “She’s going to forget who you are whether you are here with her or not. If you think staying with her in that house will prolong that, it’s simply not the case. This is a horrible disease. Don’t let it destroy you too.”

I thank the doctor for his time and rush to the car, unable to hold back my sobs any longer. Mal would call it an ugly cry. Mal would hold me close until I was fresh out of tears, and then they’d hold me longer.

But Mal’s not here, and I’ve never felt more alone in my life.