When my father began to forget words, and then basic skills, I sensed his fear. After my own alcoholic blackouts, I understood what he was going through
The radio was playing in the background of my parents’ kitchen the first time my father forgot how to eat. It was July 2015 and the news was bad. My parents and I sat around the table where they had first taught me how to use a spoon. Though it was a mild night, my father huddled against the radiator for warmth.
I can’t remember what to do, he said. He held his empty fork before him as though it were an alien object. What do I do, he asked, a tremor in his voice, with this? My mother’s fork was hidden in a twist of pasta that she had twirled up from her plate against the curve of her spoon, and he looked from it to his own in confusion. In the lamplight, fear changed the shape of his eyes. He knew a fork is not something you forget how to use.
