Lisa Genova - Still Alice

She clicked on her mailbox. Seventy-three new emails. Overwhelmed and powerless to respond, she closed out of her email application without opening anything. She stared at the screen she'd spent much of her professional life in front of. Three folders sat on the desktop arranged in a vertical row: "Hard Drive," "Alice," "Butterfly." She clicked on the "Alice" folder.

Inside were more folders with different titles: "Abstracts," "Administrative," "Classes," "Conferences," "Figures," "Grant Proposals," "Home," "John," "Kids," "Lunch Seminars," "Molecules to Mind," "Papers," "Presentations," "Students." Her entire life organized into neat little icons. She couldn't bear to look inside, afraid she wouldn't remember or understand her entire life. She clicked on "Butterfly" instead.

Dear Alice, You wrote this letter to yourself when you were of sound mind. If you are reading this, and you are unable to answer one or more of the following questions, then you are no longer of sound mind: 1. What month is it?

2. Where do you live?

3. Where is your office?

4. When is Anna's birthday?

5. How many children do you have?

You have Alzheimer's disease. You have lost too much of yourself, too much of what you love, and you are not living the life you want to live. There is no good outcome to this disease, but you have chosen an outcome that is the most dignified, fair, and respectful to you and your family. You can no longer trust your own judgment, but you can trust mine, your former self, you before Alzheimer's took too much of you away. You lived an extraordinary and worthwhile life. You and your husband, John, have three healthy and amazing children, who are all loved and doing well in the world, and you had a remarkable career at Harvard filled with challenge, creativity, passion, and accomplishment. This last part of your life, the part with Alzheimer's, and this end that you've carefully chosen, is tragic, but you did not live a tragic life. I love you, and I'm proud of you, of how you've lived and all that you've done while you could. Now, go to your bedroom. Go to the black table next to the bed, the one with the blue lamp on it. Open the drawer to that table. In the back of the drawer is a bottle of pills. The bottle has a white label on it that says FOR ALICE in black letters. There are a lot of pills in that bottle. Swallow all of them with a big glass of water. Make sure you swallow all of them. Then, get in the bed and go to sleep. Go now, before you forget. And do not tell anyone what you're doing. Please trust me. Love, Alice Howland She read it again. She didn't remember writing it. She didn't know the answers to any of the questions but the one asking the number of children she had. But then, she probably knew that because she'd provided the answer in the letter. She couldn't be sure of their names. Anna and Charlie, maybe. She couldn't remember the other one.

She read it again, more slowly this time, if that was even possible. Reading on a computer screen was difficult, more difficult than reading on paper, where she could use a pen and highlighter. And paper she could take with her to her bedroom and read it there. She wanted to print it out but couldn't figure out how to make that happen. She wished her former self, she before Alzheimer's took too much of her away, had known to include instructions for printing it out.

She read it again. It was fascinating and surreal, like reading a diary that had been hers when she was a teenager, secret and heartfelt words written by a girl she only vaguely remembered. She wished she'd written more. Her words made her feel sad and proud, powerful and relieved. She took a deep breath, exhaled, and went upstairs.

She got to the top of the stairs and forgot what she had gone up there to do. It carried a sense of importance and urgency, but nothing else. She went back downstairs and looked for evidence of where she'd just been. She found the computer on with a letter to her displayed on the screen. She read it and went back upstairs.

She opened the drawer in a table next to the bed. She pulled out packets of tissues, pens, a stack of sticky paper, a bottle of lotion, a couple of cough candies, dental floss, and some coins. She spread everything out on the bed and touched each item, one at a time. Tissues, pen, pen, pen, sticky paper, coins, candy, candy, floss, lotion.

"Alice?"

"What?"

She spun around. John stood in the doorway.

"What are you doing up here?" he asked.

She looked at the items on the bed.

"Looking for something."

"I have to run back to the office to pick up a paper I forgot. I'm going to drive, so I'll only be gone for a few minutes."

"Okay."

"Here, it's time, take these before I forget."

He handed her a glass of water and a handful of pills. She swallowed each one.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome. I'll be right back."

He took the empty glass from her and left the room. She lay down on the bed next to the former contents of the drawer and closed her eyes, feeling sad and proud, powerful and relieved as she waited.

"ALICE, PLEASE, PUT YOUR ROBE, hood, and cap on, we need to leave."

"Where are we going?" asked Alice.

"Harvard Commencement."

She inspected the costume again. She still didn't get it.

"What does commencement mean?"

"It's Harvard graduation day. Commencement means beginning."

Commencement. Graduation from Harvard. A beginning. She turned the word over in her mind. Graduation from Harvard marked a beginning, the beginning of adulthood, the beginning of professional life, the beginning of life after Harvard. Commencement. She liked the word and wanted to remember it.

They walked along a busy sidewalk wearing their dark pink costumes and plush black hats. She felt conspicuously ridiculous and entirely untrusting of John's wardrobe decision for the first several minutes of their walk. Then, suddenly, they were everywhere. Masses of people in similar costumes and hats but in a variety of colors funneled from every direction onto the sidewalk with them, and soon they were all walking in a rainbow costume parade.

They entered a grassy yard shaded by big, old trees and surrounded by big, old buildings to the slow, ceremonial sounds of bagpipes. Alice shivered with goose bumps. I've done this before. The procession led them to a row of chairs where they sat down.

"This is Harvard graduation," said Alice.

"Yes," said John.

"Commencement."

"Yes."

After some time, the speakers began. Harvard graduations past had featured many famous and powerful people, mostly political leaders.

"The king of Spain spoke here one year," said Alice.

"Yes," said John. He laughed a little, amused.

"Who is this man?" asked Alice, referring to the man at the podium.

"He's an actor," said John.

Now, Alice laughed, amused.

"I guess they couldn't get a king this year," said Alice.

"You know, your daughter is an actress. She could be up there someday," said John.

Alice listened to the actor. He was an easy and dynamic speaker. He kept talking about a picaresque.

"What's a picaresque?" asked Alice.

"It's a long adventure that teaches the hero lessons."

The actor talked about his life's adventure. He told them he was here today to pass on to them, the graduating classes, the people about to begin their own picaresques, the lessons he'd learned along his way. He gave them five: Be creative, be useful, be practical, be generous, and finish big.

I've been all those things, I think. Except, I haven't finished yet. I haven't finished big.

"That's good advice," said Alice.