When the Word Finally Comes

My younger brother just turned 60 and has been living with Alzheimer’s for several years. Before the disease, he was a successful, award-winning chef. As Alzheimer’s has progressed, he has developed significant aphasia—he knows exactly what he wants to say, but the words won’t come.

When that happens, he pauses. He struggles. He tries again and again. And when the frustration finally boils over, he fills the gap with a single, familiar word.

“Shit.”

So he’ll say things like, “My dog Charlie…” or “Do you remember…” and then—“shit.”

Recently, he was hospitalized with the flu. After he was discharged, I asked how it had gone. He struggled but told me how weak he’d felt, how sick he’d been, how little he remembered of the stay, and how relieved he was to be home. I asked what he’d done since getting back.

“I took a two-hour…”He stopped. Tried again.

“I took a two-hour. I took a two-hour. I took a two-hour…”

I waited. I knew the word was coming.

“I took a two-hour… shit.”

I laughed. “Really? A two-hour shit? That’s impressive.”

He laughed too, then said without hesitation, “No. I took a two-hour nap!”

And we laughed again.

We laughed because we could—but also because we knew how rare moments like that would become.

Alzheimer’s isn’t new to my family. It keeps breaking into our homes and stealing our family members.

That moment reminded me that laughter doesn’t cure Alzheimer’s. It doesn’t restore lost language. But sometimes—just for a moment—it loosens the grip of aphasia. Sometimes the word still finds its way through.

And sometimes, that’s all we get.