It's funny that I just wrote a story about an Alzheimers' patient now, because there is a movie out about the same topic that I went to see last night. The movie is based on an Alice Munroe story and I admire her stories very much; plus, the New Yorker gave it a good review, so that was enough to get me out to the theatre. On the whole it was a very well-made, beautiful, and tragic film. I won't spoil the ending but it seemed to be a story of enduring love. I say enduring love even though the true tragedy of Alzheimers' is that it ravages and strips away everything, even the memory of love. It's terrible and it raises the question of what remains of our identities if our memories are erased. My story was also about this question, but it was more about the early stages of memory loss and becoming "unstuck in time", to borrow a phrase from Slaughterhouse-Five. It's very worrying indeed to think that there can be a worse fate than losing one's sense of time; one can lose one's sense of self as well.
I will admit, although I'm not even twenty years old, the thought flashed through my mind while watching the movie: "I hope I'm lucky enough to age as beautifully as Julie Christie." She looks radiant and graceful in her age, I must say.