My father passed away several years ago after years of progressive mental and physical loss due to Alzheimer’s disease. So, when I read the following lines in Ian McEwan’s book “Saturday” they struck a chord in my soul.
“His mother no longer possesses the faculties to anticipate his arrival, recognize him when he’s with her, or remember him after he’s left. An empty visit. She doesn’t expect him and she wouldn’t be disappointed if he failed to show up. It’s like taking flowers to a graveside—the true business is with the past…. He hates going to see her, he despises himself if he stays away too long.”
I don’t even know what to say. I know all too well the emotions of which he speaks, but have no words to say anything further.
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