Some things are worse than

death. And Alzheimer's disease may well be among them.

For the patient? Of course,

early on, while he or she still knows what's happening. But eventually,

as mind, personality, and soul are ripped from the body, the true victim

is the caregiver usually a husband, a daughter, a wife ill-prepared for

overwhelming day-in, day-out demands.

My first editor, on our high

school newspaper, died of early-onset Alzheimer's when she was barely

60. Her husband, Wayne Ewing, also in the Class of '53, has since devoted

his life to helping Alzheimer's caregivers. In his remarkable book, "Tears

in God's Bottle," he wrote of trying not to weep: "Because caregivers

are supposed to give selflessly and not count their losses. Because caregivers

should remain strong and confident, and not give in to self-pity. Because

caregivers need to be tough and avoid displays of weakness."

But as Ann's disease progressed,

and that part of her that made her Ann faded away leaving an empty shell,

a sensitive therapist said to Wayne, "Why wouldn't you mourn your

personal loss? You too have been assaulted by this disease, and you may

have borne even more of its devastation than Ann during her passage into

the unknown. Why do you call such mourning selfish?"

We have been spared firsthand

experience with Alzheimer's, but we have mourned with so many friends

whose lives it has derailed. Enough to be offended by Alzheimer's jokes.

Enough to be hurt when "sure preventions" like mental exercise

are ballyhooed.

Malia, a classmate of our daughter's,

writes me occasionally. Her mother was diagnosed several years ago and,

until recently, was cared for at home. But the time the family dreaded

had arrived: "Mom has started a precipitous decline since June. It's

absolutely stunning. She usually doesn't know me, and sometimes doesn't

believe that Dad is her husband. Dad got a call today that a room [in

the Alzheimer's unit] at Ashley Glen is available and he is considering

taking it.

"He's met with each of

the kids today, and we will make a decision in the next day or two. I

am torn, feeling guilty for putting her in, yet concerned about the mental

and physical toll this has on Dad.

"A friend who's been there

says you have to make the decision based on the well-being of the caregiver,

because the patient is already gone."

For Floy Farr, caregiver, the

nightmare is going on a decade. He had in-home nurses until Ashley Glen

opened nearly five years ago, and his wife, Bruce, was one of its first

patients.

He goes to see her every day,

bringing her home several times a week,