Mom stormed away from me only once today. We were on the city streets and I was taking her to the optometrist so that they could replace the nose pad that had mysteriously disappeared from her glasses, leaving the wire frame sticking into her nose. She was convinced we needed to walk in the other direction, and angrily told me so. I bribed her by saying we’d be meeting Daddy there. I showed her a photo of him. “That’s your dad,” she said. “What about my dad?” It was actually

Why don’t any of the Alzheimer’s books or websites prepare you for the rage? Or your helplessness and guilt when you can’t defuse it? We’d already walked out and come back twice. I’d even called her on the phone from the privacy of the study, pretending I was somewhere else to see if I could calm her. She stood by the door for two hours. Two hours! She tried kicking it, using a nail file, even a wet rag. She gathered things for her journey—a book, her nightgown, four bras—and