My wife always said she would die of Alzheimer’s. It turns out she was right about that. For years, I insisted she would not. In the end, Vanessa clinched our little argument by dying last September, but we had known her fate since 2019, the year she was diagnosed, at the age of 49. For at least three years before that, though, the realisation dawned by hideous degrees which way the debate was going.
When we met, in the mid-00s, the proposition that Vanessa did not have Alzheimer’s, nor was about to develop it, was an easy motion to defend. She was dazzling and creative, with a successful career as a marketing executive. In that context, her preoccupation with this old person’s disease came across as a little absurd.
