When I was young, my father would point out a plant or animal in the wild and ask me to explain the “survival value” of a particular feature, such as the protective pattern and coloration of an animal that allowed it to hide from predators, or the curved form of a leaf that enabled a plant to collect precious rainwater. This exercise was not confined to local New England life forms. We continued the debate over paintings of lumbering Pleistocene mammals and nimble and fleet-footed dinosaurs, and specimens of exotic and extinct birds and reptiles trapped for eternity in the glass cages of museums.
This pastime was, in itself, an exercise in survival value, for the ability to observe and to make logical inferences led me to a career in the sciences from which I have derived great fulfillment. While as a child, this “survival value” game was all about coming up with answers, the real game of adulthood was coming up with questions. When my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, there were plenty of questions to be asked. When had it really begun? What was his prognosis? What sort of care would he require? Was he aware of his situation, and if so, what did he make of it? Were we ourselves at risk?
In retrospect, the one question we did not ask, that my father might very well have asked was this: what is the “survival value” of Alzheimer's disease? On the face of it, Alzheimer's has no survival value whatsoever. It robs its victims of their mental and physical faculties, and their ability to derive joy from their surroundings and their interactions with family and friends. It depletes their resources and exhausts their caretakers, and its prognosis is unequivocally grim, the antithesis of survival.
Yet I suspect that my father would find a flaw in our reasoning. The question of survival pertains to the species, not just to the individual. Regardless of their clever adaptations, every individual animal or plant’s tenure on the planet is transitory, yet their ability to survive is integral to the long-term survival of their species. Viewed through this lens, can we find any possible survival value in Alzheimer's disease?
As family members, we needed to adapt to the realities of Alzheimer's and take on new roles in my father’s care. While he had cared for and nurtured us, fed us and read to us, now the roles were reversed. By sharing in his care, and interacting with his caretakers, we adapted intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. We learned to delight in the moments when my father’s smile, wit, and modest charm illuminated those around him.
As his condition deteriorated, our evolution continued at a similar pace, a curious side effect of the slow ravages of Alzheimer’s. Like trees growing in a relentless north wind, we grew stronger, and better able to withstand the rigors of the days to come. Strengthened as individuals, we had more to offer to one another and to those around us, including others sharing the Alzheimer's journey. Thus, for all of its destructive power, the experience of Alzheimer's has some survival value for those of us left behind, an irony that I believe my father would have appreciated.