If I could go back to the days before the strokes destroyed my mother’s memory and her vision, her ability to walk and stand, read a book, put on her shoes, use a fork—I would talk to her about how much my heart aches watching her die brain cell by tiny brain cell for more than a decade. My mother, more than most people, would’ve understood because she watched her father die the same way.
Sixteen years ago, decades after my grandfather’s death, my mother was diagnosed with a hereditary condition that causes strokes, migraines, mood disorders, dementia and death. The disease has no known treatment or cure, and every child or sibling of a person with the disease has a fifty percent chance of having it. With my mother’s diagnosis, I learned that twenty-six people in my family are at risk of having this disease, myself included.