“I’m here to give you coping tools.” She held a folder. “First, there’s paperwork to apply for help—there’s government assistance in certain cases, community support services, and I can help you figure out what your medical insurance will cover. Once you fill out all these forms we can decide exactly what might help. You have to be patient, as the process can be tedious.”

“We might be able to get help from agencies and you?” Hallie asked.

“Yes,” Susan continued. “And decisions must be made about your father’s driving, his living arrangements and his daily life. You must become aware of what will happen as the disease progresses. It is best to be prepared.”

Colleen stood, feeling shaky, needing a breath from the barrage of information. “Would you like some coffee?”

Susan nodded. This woman with her facts and her papers and her forms made Dad’s disease more real in a way she hadn’t expected. Colleen walked to the kitchen and poured coffee into one of Shane’s dark brown pottery mugs with the pub logo etched on the side. “Milk or sugar?” she asked, welcoming the few minutes’ reprieve.

“No, thank you.”

Colleen handed the mug to Susan, who continued, “I know this stack of forms looks overwhelming. But everything you do will help. I have information on how to fully understand your own assets. I have brochures on care facilities, in-home care providers and more.”

“It’s a lot.” Hallie slid the papers around the coffee table like a stack of tarot cards that could read their future. “Medical forms. Insurance forms. And what is this? A living will?”

“Yes.”

“Power of attorney?” Colleen asked.

“While your dad is still mentally able, he must decide who will have the power to make financial decisions once he is unable. This is all the more important because he operates a business.”

“Shane already has power of attorney.” Hallie picked up a paper. “He signed it after Mother passed. You know, just in case.”

“Just in case?” Colleen asked. “Or just because you told him to?”

“Because Shane runs the business.” Hallie stared directly at Susan instead of Colleen.

Susan exhaled a long, jittery sigh as if she’d been through this many times and was hoping that, this once, she wouldn’t have to face a bickering family. “And I need to tell you about these papers.” She held a pile of photocopied sheets. “This is an article by Pauline Boss about the myth of closure. I want you to read it. Alzheimer’s is a disease with a pattern of loss. It’s unlikely that you’ll experience the five stages of grief you’ve been taught. I don’t want you to expect it. I’ve discovered that your experience may be more like what Boss calls ‘ambiguous loss.’”

“Which is?” Colleen asked.