‘Twas the Night before Christmas, and my last visit before leaving for the holidays found him sitting in semi-darkness, his wheelchair facing neither the TV nor the door, where he might have at least caught some movement to stimulate a brain rapidly grinding to a halt, delivered to his room like a discarded grocery cart. My one-sided conversation flickered briefly, and then burned out; leaving a lengthening silent darkness that deepened at first, but which became a marvelous glow that illuminated first the room, then all of Christmas for me. At that moment, the Alzheimer’s seemed almost a gift, as if once the words disappeared, our spirits were released from their imprisonment in thought, and all that remained was pure, heightened presence. So we sat another silent hour together, quietly gazing, totally present, a gift unwrapped by wordlessness. Not a creature was stirring.
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