As she threw her hands over her head, effortlessly folding her tiny body backwards and upside down to reach the floor, she looked up at me and exclaimed:

“Like this, Dr. Deb.  This is the position that helps me feel better.”

“What else?” I asked.  

Without hesitation, she jumped up on the treatment table, flopped onto her belly and rested her chin in her hands.  After a moment or two of complete silence, she looked straight at me, as if to emphasize the seriousness of the situation, and announced:  "I need rest!

Several years ago, I started asking myself:  Why do I care for my children more than other children?

Shouldn’t my attention extend beyond my immediate family to include all children?

I bring this question to my classes, which at times feels a bit dramatic and rebellious, and I am heartened by the number of people who nod in agreement, admitting that they too have contemplated this question.

Her diagnosis is early Alzheimer’s disease, and simply sitting in the waiting room with individuals who are exhibiting symptoms of the disease elicits fear.

She is informed of the progressive nature of the disease, counseled about necessary lifestyle changes and even given statistics about probable outcome.

Now referred to as an Alzheimer’s patient, and even classified by stage, she leaves the office feeling uneasy, as if her identity has been altered.

The children tried to cope, but at times, the best they could do was to go into a room and scream, sometimes for more than an hour, emerging exhausted and distant.  They struggled to find comfort in play, unburdened by the weight of their experiences.

He was visibly shattered.  Despite his accomplishments as a successful businessman and elite athlete, his intolerance for his humanity raged.

He briefly skimmed over the reason for his visit:  advanced metastatic cancer.
And then, without pause, the insults starting flying.

Not at me…. at himself.