Tag: alzheimers

Secret Chord

June 7th, 2026

I like music, all sorts of music. I like listening to it, not so much just hearing it in the background, but listening to it attentively. I’m a Luddite with regards to technology, so I still play CDs and occasionally vinyl records. I have CD player that flips through up to six different discs randomly. Right now, I have the machine full of CDs. I have been listening to Jeff Buckley, Arcade Fire, The Breeders, some obscure Indian raga, an old mix CD of songs from the 2000’s from my youngest son, and Death Cab for Cutie. I listen to classical music, gospel, soul, blues, rock, kirtan, klezmer, folk. The list is endless and the combinations of genres are too.

So, who cares? Well, I do. Maybe you might too.

I have been reading a book by Daniel J. Levitin. The book is called I Heard There was a Secret Chord (Music as Medicine). I bought the book partly because the title is also the first verse from the Leonard Cohen song, Hallelujah. The author is a musician/neuroscientist. The book is all about how music affects the brain. Levitin has an annoying habit of namedropping famous musicians that he knows, but overall, the book is fascinating. He’s done his homework, and the research is convincing, at least it is to me. He makes a strong case that music activates different parts of the brain in ways that no other human endeavor can. The upshot is that music helps the brain to function even when it’s been damaged by injury or disease or age. Playing music causes a large number of areas of the brain to work together, and even just listening closely to music gets some of these regions to light up.

As a real-life example of what I mean, I have a friend whose father has Alzheimer’s disease. My mother had that too, and she died from it. My friend and his mother have started playing music for their sick family member. The musical selections are from CDs that my friend’s father enjoyed in the past. The music puts the man in a better mood and makes him more cooperative. Additionally, my friend and his mom often place a music keyboard in front of his dad. The father was a amateur pianist. Once the father notices the keyboard, he starts playing it. He improvises on the keyboard. Music is one of the few doors that are left open to his mind. Despite all of the damage wrought by the disease, music can still connect my friend’s father to the outside world.

As I mentioned, my mom died of Alzheimer’s. This weighs on my mind, especially since I am 68 years old, and my wife and I are raising our five-year-old grandson. I need to keep my mind sharp for at least another thirteen years. This is where music come into play, literally.

Back when our youngest son was a teenager, he wanted to play guitar. We got him a guitar and a friend of mine who plays the blues gave our son some guidance. I bought myself a bass guitar. I wanted to play with our son but not compete with him. We played music together. We learned the classics: “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and “Hey Joe”. My son made up his own melodies and gave me some lame bass parts to go with them. We jammed occasionally. I was never good with the bass. I didn’t put enough time and effort into it. My son got older and lost interest in playing his guitar. My bass found a home in the back of a closet.

Now, after several years, I have retrieved the bass from the depths of the closet. I tuned it and I am trying to relearn what little I knew. I practice on the instrument sporadically. Our grandson demands my attention frequently and unexpectedly, so it is pointless to set aside any specific time period to play the guitar. I grab ten minutes a couple times a day. I am trying to become familiar again with “Day Tripper”, “Stand by Me”, and “Sunshine of Your Love”. It’s a struggle. My fingers are stiff and uncooperative. My brain is the same way. I am exercising long dormant muscles, both physical and mental.

It’s still fun. As the Levitin notes in his book, we play music. Yeah, it’s hard work at times, but it’s also enjoyable. I love to just pick at the strings and see what kind of patterns I can make. I fool around a lot and let my fingers wander. I am not very disciplined when I play, but then I don’t want to be. My mind can wander at times, and that’s okay.

I like music.

Going Downhill

April 2nd, 2026

I’m old enough to have had friends and family members die from chronic debilitating diseases. A sudden death is traumatic. I know this because one of my younger brothers died in a car wreck at the age of twenty-eight. But a slow death, one in which there is a gradual disintegration of mind or body, is agonizing. It’s like watching a slow-motion train wreck. The progress of the disease seems to be inexorable, and human efforts to stop or even to slow it down are often futile.

My mom died from Alzheimer’s disease. I have close friend whose father is suffering from the same tragic ailment. My friend’s father used to be a brilliant mathematician. Now he’s not. Now the man has great difficulty with walking up stairs and performing a number of other everyday tasks. The father, oddly enough, can still improvise music on the piano, but his other mental faculties are slipping away. My friend tells me that sometimes his dad is okay, meaning that his father hasn’t gotten any worse. The disease plateaus for a while and then continues on its negative path. There is not a smooth downward trajectory. The disease attacks the brain in fits and starts, but the overall direction is always clear.

I had two friends from work, both of whom died from cancer. One of them suffered from a type of blood cancer. The other had a brain tumor. Both of them received treatments, chemical and/or radiological. Each of them rallied for a while. I remember in visits with each of the two men how their wives would light up at any good news. The wives encouraged their partners and told them that they were getting better and it would be okay. My two friends did get better, but that was only a brief interlude, and eventually they both succumbed.

I had another brother who died from complications of alcoholism. Officially, he died of a heart attack, but it was more than that. He didn’t take care of himself, and I don’t think he wanted to live. His mental and physical decline were in many ways similar to that of somebody with Alzheimer’s. My brother would have a severe medical crisis, then he would recover, but he never quite recovered to the previous level of health. He always dropped down a step. I, along with many other people, hoped that he would turn things around one day. Other folks with addictions have been able to do that. My brother didn’t.

I sometimes speak of watching somebody else slowly die. I don’t think anybody actually just “watches” somebody whom they love die. To me, it is impossible to simply observe the destruction of someone else in a disinterested way. It’s not like going to see a Greek tragedy in a theater or binge watching a slasher movie on Netflix. The person who cares about the individual who is desperately ill is not just a spectator. That person is also a participant in the drama.

I am currently a participant in the struggle of a young person who seems to have the same disease as my brother. I love the person and I cannot separate myself from their suffering. I hope for their recovery, but I often feel completely helpless. I know I cannot save the individual.

So, what is left? There is hope. It is perhaps a forlorn and irrational hope, but it’s all I have. I cling to that hope despite all evidence that it is pointless.

That’s what I do.