On Pluto by Greg O'Brien Read Free Book Online Page B

just don’t give a shit about me, Lord!
    I limped in the car about three miles down winding country roads to Brewster Mobil, in a Tourrette’s of swears the entire way.
    â€œGot a problem,” I told the attendant abruptly. “Fix it.”
    The sympathetic attendant, a kid who had graduated from high school years ago with one of my sons, said dutifully that he’d patch the tire right away—working his pliers to pull out the obstruction that had sent me into chaos. He returned in short order.
    â€œYou might want to look at this,” he told me.
    I stared intently at the culprit with astonishment. I couldn’tbelieve what I saw.
    â€œBelieve it,” he said.
    The culprit was a small, narrow piece of scrap medal, bent into a cross.
    A perfect cross.

4
    H EADING O UT T O P LUTO
    M Y PRIVATE DARKNESS IN ALLEGORICAL TERMS IS PLUTO , a reference from my early days as an investigative reporter when I went deep “off-the-record” with sources. “We’re heading out to Pluto,” I would say, “where no one can hear what is said.”
    The Pluto metaphor still works for me, more than ever, as the urge to drift out in Alzheimer’s overcomes at intervals. As noted in the preface, Pluto, previously known as the ninth planet, about 3.1 billion miles from Earth, is relegated now to “dwarf planet” status, a sixth the mass of the moon and a third its volume, a “plutoid,” given it is one of the bodies within the Kuiper Belt, a dense cluster of rock and ice. All the more isolated today for off-the-record talks. It is a fine place to get lost metaphorically. Pluto’s orbit, like mine at times, is chaotic; its tiny size makes it sensitive to immeasurably small particles of thesolar system, hard to predict factors that will gradually disrupt an orbit—the perfect place to have a conversation that “never existed” or a conversation one can’t recall. Over the years, I have often taken close family, colleagues, and clients “out to Pluto” to discuss unmentionables of life, revelations, and comments that need to stay in a place without oxygen. Many have been there and back with me, allegorically. I want them to be familiar with the planet. One day, like my mom, I won’t return from this dark, icy place, and I want my family and friends to know where I am.
    Then, as I’ve learned from observing my grandfather and mother, it’s off even further beyond Pluto to Sedna for the final journey, the end staging of Alzheimer’s. Sedna, a far more desolate place, the so-called dwarf tenth planet orbiting the sun beyond Pluto, was discovered in 2003. It is the coldest, darkest, most distant known body in our solar system—84 billion miles from the light of the sun, with an exceptionally long and elongated orbit, taking approximately 11,400 years to complete. It’s a place where the temperature never rises above minus 240 degrees Celsius, minus 464 Fahrenheit.
    That’s consummate isolation; the word picture helps me relate. Distant heavenly bodies are far less intimidating to me than the realities of the end stage of Alzheimer’s. Completion of the journey brings one to a far better, more peaceful place—Heaven, or however you want to define it. Family is waiting for me there, and there are days I can’t wait to join them.
    In the meantime, I see a lot of smart doctors and counselors with a range of connections to top Boston area hospitals and an assortment of coping mechanisms. But I crave the simple touch—an earnest smile, a hug, a touch of the hand—far more than a medical prescription or a clinical trial. A simple touch increases body awareness and alterness for those with Alzheimer’s, and reduces feelings of confusion and anxiety. My general practitioner, Dr. Barry Conant, a close friend, an extraordinary man, and a better golfer than I, has offered the best advice todate. He has urged me, on