Actually, the title is wrong: It’s more like getting drunk near Alzheimer’s patients, because for the most part, their medications (plural, of course) don’t play nicely with alcohol. But that’s okay.
They act pretty drunk anyway.
Don’t believe me? Consider this example:
Last night, we had a few people over for dinner. The World Cup was on TV. A Budweiser commercial aired (because, of course), featuring those famous Clydesdales.
“They’re such beautiful horses,” cooed my wife.
“Delicious, too!” added Alois.
My wife nearly dropped her dinner plate.
I’ve written about Alois before. He’s a pseudonym for someone close to me who was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s-like symptoms a few years ago. Unfortunately, his symptoms have snowballed, so he was placed in a memory care facility. The TL/DR recap: He’s why we left Tampa Bay last month and are renting the house that’s literally next door to Alois’ new home, trading the Land of Alligators for this desolate, soulless, Mid-Atlantic hellscape of endless traffic lights and strip malls.
But the upside is, I’ve seen Alois every single day. I just walk over and say hello.
That part of the equation was expected. (Wouldn’t have moved here otherwise.) What I didn’t expect was that spending time with Alois would also mean making friends and spending time with his fellow residents.
Alois is a veteran — and he’s not the only resident, either. When four of ‘em get together for dinner, there’s something like 320 years of wisdom and experience at the table.
Meanwhile, the age of America is only 250.
Alois has personally lived through one-third of the entire American experiment. He was born closer to the death of Abraham Lincoln than the birth of Zohran Mamdani. When he was a little boy, the old men he’d see around town were Civil War veterans.
When I was a little boy, the old men were World War I veterans. None of them are around anymore. They’re all gone.
For millennials, they were World War II veterans. They’re fading fast. Soon, there’ll be none left.
For Generation Alpha, they’re Vietnam veterans.
Alzheimer’s cruelty is obvious: It steals your memories of the past and your capacity to predict the future. All you have is the present — the here and now.
But without your past and future as anchors, the present is a scary, random place. There’s paranoia, suspicions, conspiracies, and despair. A young man who stormed the beaches of Normandy is transformed into an old man cowering behind his bed, because he’s terrified that the nurses are coming to kill him.
Yet through it all, Alois and his fellow residents look after each other. They have each other’s backs. It’s surprisingly sweet: They bundle together to make sure everyone is safe — everyone remembered to eat — and nobody is alone.
Sometimes, the best friends you’ll ever have are the ones you’ll only meet when you need them the most.
They’re a band of brothers and sisters, united in their final mission. Not raging against the dying of the light — but not accepting it, either.
Instead, they’re doing something far more useful — and infinitely more heroic: They’re imposing their American values upon it.
Our memories aren’t guaranteed. Like the veterans of America’s wars, they eventually fade from view. Eventually, the Vietnam veterans will all fade away, too — and for Generation Beta, the “new” old men will be the Iran War veterans.
Together, they form an unbroken chain between today and 1776. Together, they bled and wept and cursed and screamed to preserve the sacred flame of liberty — until their minds and bodies were just too broken to continue.
And now, the burden is ours.
What I’ve learned from Alzheimer’s patients is that our values matter infinitely more than our memories. They last longer. Our values endure when all else crumbles.
American exceptionalism is a byproduct of American values. It’s what makes us special; it’s how we became a superpower. The former can’t exist without the latter.
(Also: Clydesdales are delicious.)
Happy birthday, America. Crack open a cold beverage and celebrate! Even though only four out of Politico’s 11 “experts” predict that our country will survive another 250 years, I wouldn’t trade America’s future for its past. In fact, I think our brightest days are still to come.
Because, in every age, we’ve had men such as Alois and his friends.
And if they can show this much love and honor in their twilight, imagine what we can all still do together — before the sun sets on our story, too.
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