I Thought Alzheimer’s Was Behind Us

It Wasn’t Behind Us

When my dad died, I thought Alzheimer’s was behind us.

I was wrong.

Fifteen years later, my brother—ten years older than me—started mentioning memory problems. I brushed it off.

Then one afternoon, he called me at work.

“How old was Dad when he got Alzheimer’s?”

“Sixty-two,” I said.

“Good,” he replied. “I’m sixty-three.”

The next day, he called again.

“How old was Dad when he got Alzheimer’s?”

“Sixty-two.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m sixty-three.”

Please, no, I thought.

Not long after, he was diagnosed.

Three years later, I started getting calls from my niece about her mom, who had just turned sixty.

“I think Mom has Alzheimer’s,” she said.

She was right.

Then my youngest brother—just fifty-five—told me something felt off.

A neurologist followed his decline for several years, repeatedly acknowledging cognitive problems but offering no formal diagnosis until 2025, after he turned sixty.

By then, it was too severe for any of the new medications.

His cognitive decline had progressed beyond any new medical treatment options.

When I look at my brothers and sister now, I see my father all over again.

The same confusion in their eyes.The same searching for words.The same frustration.

And the fear.So much fear.

And I wonder—

If I need to, will I be able to hold them the way I had our father?

Do I have the strength?

Alzheimer’s runs in our blood.

It is our family’s curse.

I wonder if one of my children will have to hold me—just for a few seconds—while someone moves a mattress.

Or an even harder question still lingers:

Will my grandchildren one day hold my children?

Or will someone—anyone—finally find a cure?