*Horror Vacui*
Alzheimer's, the doctor had said it was. Alzheimer's. Well.
I have seen the effects of Alzheimer's before. My mother had it. My grandmother had it. For as long as I can remember I have been terrified of contracting it.
Alzheimer's. I have Alzheimer's.
How many years to live? I asked him. He had refused to answer, reassuring me, as doctors do, that I would not die for quite some time, indeed, before my death it was nearly certain they would have found the cure, what with stem cell research and the miracles of modern medicine and the extreme unwillingness of all doctors to admit that there's nothing they can do; no help to be found in their stores of knowledge and their syringes and their long Latin names of diseases and the cold, distant professional sterility of their hospital rooms and their hospital staff and their hospital scalpels and saws and tweezers and scissors and sutures.
How long till I forget? I had asked him that too, and his answer was much the same. Not for some time, and then only gradually, you won't notice it at all, he reassured me. And, of course, it doesn't matter when, because before you have a chance to forget anything they'll develop a cure and it will all be fine, he added.
Alzheimer's.
I shuddered, and suddenly the blank white walls of my house were like a hospital room, cold and antiseptic and featureless. They had to be covered, HAD TO BE COVERED.
But with
Alzheimer's, the doctor had said it was. Alzheimer's. Well.
I have seen the effects of Alzheimer's before. My mother had it. My grandmother had it. For as long as I can remember I have been terrified of contracting it.
Alzheimer's. I have Alzheimer's.
How many years to live? I asked him. He had refused to answer, reassuring me, as doctors do, that I would not die for quite some time, indeed, before my death it was nearly certain they would have found the cure, what with stem cell research and the miracles of modern medicine and the extreme unwillingness of all doctors to admit that there's nothing they can do; no help to be found in their stores of knowledge and their syringes and their long Latin names of diseases and the cold, distant professional sterility of their hospital rooms and their hospital staff and their hospital scalpels and saws and tweezers and scissors and sutures.
How long till I forget? I had asked him that too, and his answer was much the same. Not for some time, and then only gradually, you won't notice it at all, he reassured me. And, of course, it doesn't matter when, because before you have a chance to forget anything they'll develop a cure and it will all be fine, he added.
Alzheimer's.
I shuddered, and suddenly the blank white walls of my house were like a hospital room, cold and antiseptic and featureless. They had to be covered, HAD TO BE COVERED.
But with
