So, January didn’t just bring a new year. 

It brought a new diagnosis for Willie. 

Alzheimer’s disease. 

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. I was just —

Wait. What do you mean you knew?  
 
How? 

I mean, yes. She utterly failed to file her tax returns.

And sure. She eloped from the hospital last October. 

And then there was the day she extolled the beautiful woman who made her a chicken pot pie. 

“That,” I said, “was me.” 

You know what? I think I see your point. 

Willie’s dementia specialist said Willie needs 24-hour-a-day supervision.  

Like, yesterday. 

Or, you know, five years ago when she stopped filing tax returns. 

“What?” I spluttered. Six months ago, he said Willie had mild dementia. How had she progressed this far, this fast?  

Is there, like, a dementia fast pass — like at amusement parks? Pay a little extra, jump the line? 

I closed the computer on our telehealth visit, my mouth agape in shock. “Are — are you OK?” I asked Willie.  

“Yep!” Willie said, all business as usual. 

I asked if she understood what the doctor said. 

Perfectly, Willie told me. “But here’s the thing,” Willie said. 

There’s always a thing with Willie.  

Willie explained, yes, she knew she had a little memory problem. But clearly, I had been spinning falsehoods about Willie’s mental status to her physicians. 

Because, you know, I’m looking for more problems. 

What’s more, Willie continued, she did not want to move from independent living to assisted living. 

“OK,” I said. 

“And I don’t want to move in with any of you kids,” Willie said. 

Got it. 

“And I don’t want to bring in help here at the Temple of Doom.” 

Right. 

So, the 24-hour-a-day supervision? 

“I have my Life Alert bracelet,” Willie replied, tapping her wrist. 

“Oh,” she said. “I forgot to put it on today.” 
 
You don’t say. 

I laid it on the line with Willie. I really did. I told her she has Alzheimer’s and needs to move to assisted living, maybe even memory care. 

She threw me out of the Temple of Doom. 

I called my brother, to give him the bad news. 

“No kidding,” he said, an eye roll audible in his voice. “Of course she has Alzheimer’s.” 

Huh. Guess he reads this column, too. 

My brother went to Willie’s place, to plead with her to see reason. 

But reason and Willie have never been on good terms.  

Like the day she texted me a picture of her brother’s naked bum.  

So I could see his rash. 

Um, why? 

“I thought maybe you would know what kind of rash it is,” Willie said. 

This was years and years ago, by the way. Long before that plan could be fertilized with the potting soil of Alzheimer’s disease. 

When my brother told Willie she really, really had to move to assisted living, Willie really, really kicked him out of the Temple of Doom. 

My sister tried next. She called Willie, implored her to move. 

Willie hung up on her. 

My turn again. 

By this time, Willie’s story had morphed. It wasn’t a telehealth visit that started all this.  

It was an in-person visit. 

And I — evil, evil me — I asked the doctor to speak privately. When we were done — poof! — she had this diagnosis and the directive to move to assisted living.  

“And I did that — why?” I asked. 

Well, as it turns out, I have a master plan to sequester Willie in assisted living, so I never have to see her again. 

I pointed out I could easily do that now, with Willie in independent living. 

Willie agreed.  

So that was something, I guess. 

Last week, I took Willie for a check-up with her regular family doctor.  

“Are you living independently?” his staff asked. 

“Yes!” Willie replied. 

“Who does your grocery shopping?”  

“I do!” Willie said. 

“My siblings and I do,” I said. 

“Who does your medications?” the staff asked. 

“I do!” Willie said. 

“I do,” I said. 

“Who pays your bills?” 

“I do!” Willie said. 

“My sister does,” I said. 

Huh. Sounds like Willie already has some assistance in living. 

Don’t anybody tell her.