Dear Memory Preservers,
I had a very good and long laugh at myself this morning. The kind of laugh that nearly turned into hysterics.
As you know (although new readers may not), my father Beau became a neurologist after watching his father’s demise from Alzheimer’s disease. Beau then kept his father’s brain in a jar on his office desk, as a reminder of what he was fighting in his patients as well as in himself.
I swore that I’d never keep my father’s brain in a jar, even though I thought about it a few times. Maybe set it free in the South Seas. But no, I decided. I would end our obsession with Alzheimer’s by not repeating this morbid preservation method.
Yet I’ve managed to do it. Repeat history. Inadvertently yet inexorably.
I’ve put my father’s brain in a jar by writing a book about him called, “Brain in a Jar.” The contents of his mind preserved on pages instead of in formaldehyde.
Calling Dr. Freud.