The Call

The older you become, the more likely it's going to happen. Each passing day brings that much greater likelihood, that much greater probability. Because as you age, so do your parents. And if you're lucky enough to have both still alive, the probability of this event occurring doubles.

There's no getting around it: It will happen. There is absolutely no avoiding it. Because that's what aging is all about.

Get older, thankfully have two parents still alive, and that call will come. It is inevitable as many of you already know.

For me, that call came this week. A call, the call, that instantly changes everything. That call that signals the beginning of heavy involvement within the health care system. The call that indicates that you and your siblings had best get a good plan in place. Soon. The call that, in our case, gives us an opportunity to discuss and agree on a path forward -- through terrain where we've luckily never been and eventually through a landscape no one ever wants to visit, much less explore -- but one we now know we will need to.

That call. For me, my first call.

The voice on the other end of the phone said it all in one word: Alzheimer's. Additional details provided context: Difficulty shaping thoughts, slurred speech, 'loss' of an hour while on errands, inability to remember common details.

(Yes, but has his sense of humor been effected? No, I was told, it's as bad as ever. He says now he'll have a ready-made excuse for when he gets caught in his neighbor's bed.)

The voice also said: More tests are needed. There's the possibility he's suffered a series of small strokes.

Yes, that call.

The call in which you begin to wonder which of two really bad things might be better: A series of small strokes or Alzheimer's?

The call in which you search your own mind's data base for studies and statistics on Alzheimer's, new drug therapies, and anything else you've read about the disease. And, of course, you remember nothing.

The call in which part of your consciousness attempts to convince you that this is not happening or that the caller is inaccurate or somehow not a credible source of information.

The call in which another part of your brain is telling you, clearly and with calm, 'This is your dad. He's 87. He's making risque jokes about the advantages of a poor memory. He'll be okay.'

The call during which you wonder how this might change our lives as we support our father through this.

The call in which you quickly move from diagnosis to rapid decline to assisted living to residential living to complete loss of reality. To death.

The call in which you begin to think about how much this all might cost.

That call.

And, no, it wasn't a long conversation. I did my best to struggle through what couldn't have been more than 5 minutes. Amazing the thoughts that scream through your head at such a time. I'm comforted by some, embarrassed by others. Just like I won't forget the call, I certainly won't forget my initial reactions.

A short, matter of fact call that changed everything. Mostly, of course, for my dad, who now knows the end is in sight.

That call.