Among friends

I had the chance to stay with a friend and his wife who moved a few years ago to another state. They live near yet another friend who moved to the area years earlier.

A third friend (we are all fraternity brothers who've known each other for over fifty years) was visiting them from his considerably more distant state.

I couldn't resist the thought of us all being together again. Having visited them, individually or in pairs, in recent years, the idea of reminiscing and enjoying each other's company for the first time in decades as a foursome had me packing bags for the long drive.

One of the friends has Alzheimer's. I've spent time with him since his diagnosis, trying to be a help, optimistic that our time together might slow his progression, if only a little.

He is still himself, absent the ability to hold on for long to new information, absent the ability to apply rigorous and consistent logic to his life as he once did, absent the ability to be an equal partner with his heartbroken wife.

But he is still essentially himself. He knows me and my wife and our other friends and his extended family. He remembers parts of our shared past better than I do.

But he can't drive; he can't pass the person-woman-man-camera-tv test goosed as a sign of genius by a former president; he can't (a former CFO) figure the tip on a bill; and he can no longer effectively manage the kind of everyday smaller things most do almost without thought.

I love him dearly and treasure the moments we have while he is still present. Knowing that one day he might not be confounds and upsets.

Of course, in our seventies, my brothers and I are as close now to the end of things as we were to our beginnings when we met. There is a host of unpleasant surprises awaiting a spin of the wheel for each.

So it goes.