By Greg O’BrienI was out for my evening run, but as so often happens lately, I was not alone. The monsters, all in my mind, were gaining on me, ready to pounce. I had to sprint, a full-out panic dash, to avoid capture at sundown, that moment when Alzheimer’s bears down. It had begun as a hazy spring afternoon gave way to dusk on the waterfront in pastoral Brewster on Cape Cod: a numbing fog that slowly crept in, first in misty sprays that tingle, then in thick blankets that penetrate the mind and disorient the senses. It had the smell of a chill wind from a raging North Atlantic storm, the kind of nor’easter that takes the breath away. Faster and faster, beneath the thick canopy of oaks and red maples, the demons were chasing, their screeching howls emerging from the dense, choking groundcover of honeysuckle and myrtle. My heart was pounding, the sweat pouring. Alone, I was enveloped in fear and full paranoia — and the fire in my brain was scorching. Click on link below to read the Full Article on Rotary.org site |
