Question: Where was Dr. mapstone's office located?

Answer: University of Rochester Medical Center

<hl> The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. <hl> Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the <hl> University of Rochester Medical Center <hl> for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”


Question: Where was Sandy tested?

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”

Answer: University of Rochester Medical Center

<hl> The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. <hl> Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the <hl> University of Rochester Medical Center <hl> for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”


Question: What did Sandy declare she would do before allowing Alzheimer's to take over her?

Answer: take her own life

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” <hl> That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. <hl> Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to <hl> take her own life <hl> before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”


Question: What was the first diagnoses Mapstone gave to Sandy?

Answer: mild cognitive impairment

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” <hl> After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment . <hl> At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic <hl> mild cognitive impairment <hl>. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”

After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic <hl> mild cognitive impairment <hl> .


Question: How many years was Sandy separated from her husband?

Answer: 15 years

<hl> The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years , drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. <hl> Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for <hl> 15 years <hl>, drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for <hl> 15 years <hl> , drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone.


Question: What would mild cognitive impairment eventually lead to?

Answer: full-blown Alzheimer’s disease

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. <hl> This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to full-blown Alzheimer’s disease within 10 years. <hl> When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”

The next month, Sandy’s husband, Daryl, from whom she had been amicably separated for 15 years, drove her from Ithaca to the University of Rochester Medical Center for cognitive testing by a neuropsychologist named Mark Mapstone. Mapstone showed Sandy a line drawing and asked her to copy it, and then to draw it from memory 10 minutes later. He read her a list of words and had her recall as many as she could. He gave her two numbers and two letters and asked her to rearrange them in a particular order: low letter, high letter, low number, high number. Thank goodness that last one wasn’t timed, she thought to herself, as she focused all her mental energy on the task. She felt as gleeful as a kid who had earned a gold star when Mapstone said, “Yes, that’s right.” After three hours, Mapstone gave a preliminary diagnosis: amnestic mild cognitive impairment. At first Sandy was relieved — he had said mild, hadn’t he? — but then she caught the look on his face. This is not a good thing, Mapstone told her gently; most cases of amnestic M.C.I. progress to <hl> full-blown Alzheimer’s disease <hl> within 10 years. When Sandy went back to the waiting room to meet Daryl, she was weeping uncontrollably. Between sobs, she explained the diagnosis and the inevitable decline on the horizon. She felt terror at the prospect of becoming a hollowed-out person with no memory, mind or sense of identity, as well as fury that she was powerless to do anything but endure it. With Alzheimer’s disease, she would write, it is “extraordinarily difficult for one’s body to die in tandem with the death of one’s self.” That day at Mapstone’s office, she vowed that she would figure out a way to take her own life before the disease took it from her. Later that month, Sandy sat down in her upstairs study — painted a rich burgundy, as the rest of the house was, to make the sprawling old place feel cozy — and looked at her Mac desktop computer screen. She had some trepidation about her plan to keep a journal of her own deterioration. But she opened a new document, gave it a file name — “Memoir” — and began to type. She tried to describe the maddening capriciousness of “a mind that could be so alive one moment with thought and feeling building toward a next step and then someone erases the blackboard. It’s all gone and I can’t even reconstruct what the topic was. It’s just gone. And I sit with the dark, the blank.”


Question: How long after her Amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis did Sandy progress to Alzheimer's disease?

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

Answer: a year and a half

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. <hl> By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. <hl> She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, <hl> a year and a half <hl> after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”


Question: Where did Sandy work before her retirement?

Answer: Cornell

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. <hl> She had retired from Cornell , but she was doing well. <hl> She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from <hl> Cornell <hl>, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

She had retired from <hl> Cornell <hl> , but she was doing well.


Question: Which difficult novel did Sandy read?

Answer: Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. <hl> She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road. ” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. <hl> She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like <hl> Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road. <hl>” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

She could read novels, even difficult ones like <hl> Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road. <hl> ” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell.


Question: Where was Emily living in November 2010?

Answer: Austin, Tex.

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. <hl> She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex. , where Emily was living. <hl> Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including <hl> Austin, Tex. <hl>, where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including <hl> Austin, Tex. <hl> , where Emily was living.


Question: Who were most of Emily's friends who went on walks around Ithica with her"

Answer: former colleagues from Cornell

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” <hl> She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell . <hl> She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them <hl> former colleagues from Cornell <hl>. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them <hl> former colleagues from Cornell <hl> .


Question: What did Sandy do around Ithaca with friends?

Answer: went for walks

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” <hl> She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. <hl> She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and <hl> went for walks <hl> around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”


Question: Where did Sandy retire from?

Answer: Cornell

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. <hl> She had retired from Cornell , but she was doing well. <hl> She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from <hl> Cornell <hl>, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

She had retired from <hl> Cornell <hl> , but she was doing well.


Question: How long after Sandy was initially diagnosed did her disease develop into Alzheimer's?

Answer: a year and a half

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. <hl> By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. <hl> She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, <hl> a year and a half <hl> after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”


Question: Who had brought Sandy two books?

Answer: Daryl

<hl> On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. <hl> By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that <hl> Daryl <hl> had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”


Question: Where was Emily living?

Answer: Austin, Tex

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. <hl> She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including Austin, Tex ., where Emily was living. <hl> Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

On a quiet Friday morning in November 2010, Sandy sat down with a mug of honey-ginger tea to read two books that Daryl had brought her. By this point, a year and a half after her amnestic M.C.I. diagnosis, she had progressed to what Duffy said was Alzheimer’s disease. She had retired from Cornell, but she was doing well. She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including <hl> Austin, Tex <hl>., where Emily was living. Jeremy had temporarily moved back home to be with her. She could read novels, even difficult ones like Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” She played tennis, gardened and went for walks around Ithaca with a handful of friends, most of them former colleagues from Cornell. She saw a few psychotherapy patients. One would later say that even though Sandy was having some trouble remembering words, “it didn’t really matter. In a therapy relationship you’re talking more about emotions — and in that regard, she didn’t miss a beat.”

She could still travel alone to familiar destinations, including <hl> Austin, Tex <hl> ., where Emily was living.


Question: What would Sandy do to the character's names?

Emily was surprised to see her mother so at ease in the traditional role of Felix’s bubbe (Yiddish for “grandmother”). As a parent in the 1970s, Sandy turned every interaction with her children into a political act. During story time, she would go through their picture books with a bottle of Wite-Out and a Magic Marker, changing a hero’s name from male to female, revising plot lines, adding long hair or breasts to some of the drawings. Story time was a different experience with Felix. Sandy would cuddle with the baby and turn pages. If she couldn’t remember the word for “zebra” or “lion,” she wouldn’t fuss about it. “Oh, it’s some animal,” she would say.

Answer: changing a hero’s name from male to female

Emily was surprised to see her mother so at ease in the traditional role of Felix’s bubbe (Yiddish for “grandmother”). As a parent in the 1970s, Sandy turned every interaction with her children into a political act. <hl> During story time, she would go through their picture books with a bottle of Wite-Out and a Magic Marker, changing a hero’s name from male to female , revising plot lines, adding long hair or breasts to some of the drawings. <hl> Story time was a different experience with Felix. Sandy would cuddle with the baby and turn pages. If she couldn’t remember the word for “zebra” or “lion,” she wouldn’t fuss about it. “Oh, it’s some animal,” she would say.

Emily was surprised to see her mother so at ease in the traditional role of Felix’s bubbe (Yiddish for “grandmother”). As a parent in the 1970s, Sandy turned every interaction with her children into a political act. During story time, she would go through their picture books with a bottle of Wite-Out and a Magic Marker, <hl> changing a hero’s name from male to female <hl>, revising plot lines, adding long hair or breasts to some of the drawings. Story time was a different experience with Felix. Sandy would cuddle with the baby and turn pages. If she couldn’t remember the word for “zebra” or “lion,” she wouldn’t fuss about it. “Oh, it’s some animal,” she would say.

During story time, she would go through their picture books with a bottle of Wite-Out and a Magic Marker, <hl> changing a hero’s name from male to female <hl> , revising plot lines, adding long hair or breasts to some of the drawings.


Question: Who would Sandy cuddle with?

Answer: baby

Emily was surprised to see her mother so at ease in the traditional role of Felix’s bubbe (Yiddish for “grandmother”). As a parent in the 1970s, Sandy turned every interaction with her children into a political act. During story time, she would go through their picture books with a bottle of Wite-Out and a Magic Marker, changing a hero’s name from male to female, revising plot lines, adding long hair or breasts to some of the drawings. Story time was a different experience with Felix. <hl> Sandy would cuddle with the baby and turn pages. <hl> If she couldn’t remember the word for “zebra” or “lion,” she wouldn’t fuss about it. “Oh, it’s some animal,” she would say.

Emily was surprised to see her mother so at ease in the traditional role of Felix’s bubbe (Yiddish for “grandmother”). As a parent in the 1970s, Sandy turned every interaction with her children into a political act. During story time, she would go through their picture books with a bottle of Wite-Out and a Magic Marker, changing a hero’s name from male to female, revising plot lines, adding long hair or breasts to some of the drawings. Story time was a different experience with Felix. Sandy would cuddle with the <hl> baby <hl> and turn pages. If she couldn’t remember the word for “zebra” or “lion,” she wouldn’t fuss about it. “Oh, it’s some animal,” she would say.


Question: Who was surprised to see Sandy in a traditional grandmother role?

Answer: Emily

<hl> Emily was surprised to see her mother so at ease in the traditional role of Felix’s bubbe (Yiddish for “grandmother”). <hl> As a parent in the 1970s, Sandy turned every interaction with her children into a political act. During story time, she would go through their picture books with a bottle of Wite-Out and a Magic Marker, changing a hero’s name from male to female, revising plot lines, adding long hair or breasts to some of the drawings. Story time was a different experience with Felix. Sandy would cuddle with the baby and turn pages. If she couldn’t remember the word for “zebra” or “lion,” she wouldn’t fuss about it. “Oh, it’s some animal,” she would say.

<hl> Emily <hl> was surprised to see her mother so at ease in the traditional role of Felix’s bubbe (Yiddish for “grandmother”). As a parent in the 1970s, Sandy turned every interaction with her children into a political act. During story time, she would go through their picture books with a bottle of Wite-Out and a Magic Marker, changing a hero’s name from male to female, revising plot lines, adding long hair or breasts to some of the drawings. Story time was a different experience with Felix. Sandy would cuddle with the baby and turn pages. If she couldn’t remember the word for “zebra” or “lion,” she wouldn’t fuss about it. “Oh, it’s some animal,” she would say.


Question: What would Sandy add to some of the drawings in books?

Answer: adding long hair or breasts

Emily was surprised to see her mother so at ease in the traditional role of Felix’s bubbe (Yiddish for “grandmother”). As a parent in the 1970s, Sandy turned every interaction with her children into a political act. <hl> During story time, she would go through their picture books with a bottle of Wite-Out and a Magic Marker, changing a hero’s name from male to female, revising plot lines, adding long hair or breasts to some of the drawings. <hl> Story time was a different experience with Felix. Sandy would cuddle with the baby and turn pages. If she couldn’t remember the word for “zebra” or “lion,” she wouldn’t fuss about it. “Oh, it’s some animal,” she would say.

Emily was surprised to see her mother so at ease in the traditional role of Felix’s bubbe (Yiddish for “grandmother”). As a parent in the 1970s, Sandy turned every interaction with her children into a political act. During story time, she would go through their picture books with a bottle of Wite-Out and a Magic Marker, changing a hero’s name from male to female, revising plot lines, <hl> adding long hair or breasts <hl> to some of the drawings. Story time was a different experience with Felix. Sandy would cuddle with the baby and turn pages. If she couldn’t remember the word for “zebra” or “lion,” she wouldn’t fuss about it. “Oh, it’s some animal,” she would say.


Question: Where were Sandy's treatments located?

Over the next months, Sandy and Daryl boarded a bus early in the morning every few weeks and rode down to Manhattan for the treatments. “I still feel as though I’m me,” she told him on one ride. “Do you agree?” He did, sort of. In fact, he was surprised by how much herself Sandy could still be, even as she became less and less the formidable thinker he had always known. He was surprised too to discover that it didn’t matter to him. “I realized how little of the fact that she was an intellectual played into my feelings for her,” he said. “They were feelings for her, not her intelligence. And they were still all there.”

Answer: Manhattan

<hl> Over the next months, Sandy and Daryl boarded a bus early in the morning every few weeks and rode down to Manhattan for the treatments. <hl> “I still feel as though I’m me,” she told him on one ride. “Do you agree?” He did, sort of. In fact, he was surprised by how much herself Sandy could still be, even as she became less and less the formidable thinker he had always known. He was surprised too to discover that it didn’t matter to him. “I realized how little of the fact that she was an intellectual played into my feelings for her,” he said. “They were feelings for her, not her intelligence. And they were still all there.”

Over the next months, Sandy and Daryl boarded a bus early in the morning every few weeks and rode down to <hl> Manhattan <hl> for the treatments. “I still feel as though I’m me,” she told him on one ride. “Do you agree?” He did, sort of. In fact, he was surprised by how much herself Sandy could still be, even as she became less and less the formidable thinker he had always known. He was surprised too to discover that it didn’t matter to him. “I realized how little of the fact that she was an intellectual played into my feelings for her,” he said. “They were feelings for her, not her intelligence. And they were still all there.”


Question: Who would go with Sandy to her treatments in Manhattan?

Answer: Daryl

<hl> Over the next months, Sandy and Daryl boarded a bus early in the morning every few weeks and rode down to Manhattan for the treatments. <hl> “I still feel as though I’m me,” she told him on one ride. “Do you agree?” He did, sort of. In fact, he was surprised by how much herself Sandy could still be, even as she became less and less the formidable thinker he had always known. He was surprised too to discover that it didn’t matter to him. “I realized how little of the fact that she was an intellectual played into my feelings for her,” he said. “They were feelings for her, not her intelligence. And they were still all there.”

Over the next months, Sandy and <hl> Daryl <hl> boarded a bus early in the morning every few weeks and rode down to Manhattan for the treatments. “I still feel as though I’m me,” she told him on one ride. “Do you agree?” He did, sort of. In fact, he was surprised by how much herself Sandy could still be, even as she became less and less the formidable thinker he had always known. He was surprised too to discover that it didn’t matter to him. “I realized how little of the fact that she was an intellectual played into my feelings for her,” he said. “They were feelings for her, not her intelligence. And they were still all there.”


Question: How would Daryl and Sandy get to Sandy's treatments in Manhattan?

Answer: bus

<hl> Over the next months, Sandy and Daryl boarded a bus early in the morning every few weeks and rode down to Manhattan for the treatments. <hl> “I still feel as though I’m me,” she told him on one ride. “Do you agree?” He did, sort of. In fact, he was surprised by how much herself Sandy could still be, even as she became less and less the formidable thinker he had always known. He was surprised too to discover that it didn’t matter to him. “I realized how little of the fact that she was an intellectual played into my feelings for her,” he said. “They were feelings for her, not her intelligence. And they were still all there.”

Over the next months, Sandy and Daryl boarded a <hl> bus <hl> early in the morning every few weeks and rode down to Manhattan for the treatments. “I still feel as though I’m me,” she told him on one ride. “Do you agree?” He did, sort of. In fact, he was surprised by how much herself Sandy could still be, even as she became less and less the formidable thinker he had always known. He was surprised too to discover that it didn’t matter to him. “I realized how little of the fact that she was an intellectual played into my feelings for her,” he said. “They were feelings for her, not her intelligence. And they were still all there.”


Question: How often would Sandy go in for her treatments?

Answer: every few weeks

<hl> Over the next months, Sandy and Daryl boarded a bus early in the morning every few weeks and rode down to Manhattan for the treatments. <hl> “I still feel as though I’m me,” she told him on one ride. “Do you agree?” He did, sort of. In fact, he was surprised by how much herself Sandy could still be, even as she became less and less the formidable thinker he had always known. He was surprised too to discover that it didn’t matter to him. “I realized how little of the fact that she was an intellectual played into my feelings for her,” he said. “They were feelings for her, not her intelligence. And they were still all there.”

Over the next months, Sandy and Daryl boarded a bus early in the morning <hl> every few weeks <hl> and rode down to Manhattan for the treatments. “I still feel as though I’m me,” she told him on one ride. “Do you agree?” He did, sort of. In fact, he was surprised by how much herself Sandy could still be, even as she became less and less the formidable thinker he had always known. He was surprised too to discover that it didn’t matter to him. “I realized how little of the fact that she was an intellectual played into my feelings for her,” he said. “They were feelings for her, not her intelligence. And they were still all there.”


Question: Which country did Sandy order something from?

In October, Sandy wrote to an address in Mexico listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved two 100-milliliter bottles of pentobarbital — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. When Bev came from Oregon to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when Emily tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad?

Answer: Mexico

<hl> In October, Sandy wrote to an address in Mexico listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” <hl> Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved two 100-milliliter bottles of pentobarbital — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. When Bev came from Oregon to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when Emily tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad?

In October, Sandy wrote to an address in <hl> Mexico <hl> listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved two 100-milliliter bottles of pentobarbital — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. When Bev came from Oregon to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when Emily tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad?


Question: Where did Bev reside?

Answer: Oregon

In October, Sandy wrote to an address in Mexico listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved two 100-milliliter bottles of pentobarbital — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. <hl> When Bev came from Oregon to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. <hl> She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when Emily tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad?

In October, Sandy wrote to an address in Mexico listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved two 100-milliliter bottles of pentobarbital — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. When Bev came from <hl> Oregon <hl> to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when Emily tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad?


Question: Who would try to explain to Sandy who Robyn was?

Answer: Emily

In October, Sandy wrote to an address in Mexico listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved two 100-milliliter bottles of pentobarbital — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. When Bev came from Oregon to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. <hl> She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when Emily tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad? <hl>

In October, Sandy wrote to an address in Mexico listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved two 100-milliliter bottles of pentobarbital — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. When Bev came from Oregon to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when <hl> Emily <hl> tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad?


Question: What did Sandy order from Mexico?

Answer: pentobarbital

In October, Sandy wrote to an address in Mexico listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. <hl> Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved two 100-milliliter bottles of pentobarbital — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. <hl> The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. When Bev came from Oregon to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when Emily tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad?

In October, Sandy wrote to an address in Mexico listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved two 100-milliliter bottles of <hl> pentobarbital <hl> — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. When Bev came from Oregon to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when Emily tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad?


Question: How many bottles of pentobarbital had Sandy ordered from Mexico?

Answer: two

In October, Sandy wrote to an address in Mexico listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. <hl> Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved two 100-milliliter bottles of pentobarbital — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. <hl> The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. When Bev came from Oregon to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when Emily tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad?

In October, Sandy wrote to an address in Mexico listed on the website of “The Peaceful Pill Handbook.” Weeks passed, and she fretted that her order had been confiscated at the border. But at last it arrived: a cardboard box, no bigger than a softball, wrapped in brown paper. Sandy eagerly took scissors to the packaging and retrieved <hl> two <hl> 100-milliliter bottles of pentobarbital — she had bought an extra one just in case, even though she believed that one bottle would be enough for a person her size. The drug needed to be kept in a cool place, so she took the bottles down to the basement. For the time being, she could leave the pentobarbital on a shelf, comforted by the knowledge that it was there. Now that the matter of “How?” was taken care of, the Bems turned back to the elusive question of “When?” They still generally agreed that Sandy would probably be alive until the end of 2014. But even with the treatments in Manhattan, her cognitive deficits were becoming more pronounced. When Bev came from Oregon to visit, Sandy couldn’t understand how Bev and she could possibly have had the same parents. She didn’t recognize Robyn’s name in conversation, and when Emily tried to explain that Robyn was “Dad’s sister,” Sandy asked who, exactly, was Dad?


Question: Who was Emily angry over picking a date so soon?

Emily was angry at her father for speaking so pragmatically about her mother’s death. She was angry too at her mother for choosing a date that was so soon, and at her mother’s inner circle for allowing all of it to happen. That night, she sat with her parents and Robyn while they discussed the situation. Emily felt as though she was defending her mother’s life against everyone who wanted her to end it. “You’re just doing the math,” she told Daryl. “It’s like you’re just calculating: Judging by the rate of decline of X amount, you can predict that by time Y this will be the case. But you can’t!” “O.K., so maybe not June,” Daryl said, backing off. He had spent his life avoiding conflict. “We just thought that with your mother turning 70 on June 22, that might be a good time.” “Well, that’s nuts,” Emily said. “How can you just pick a month like that?” “What month did we say, again?” Sandy asked.

Answer: her mother

<hl> Emily was angry at her father for speaking so pragmatically about her mother ’s death. <hl> She was angry too at her mother for choosing a date that was so soon, and at her mother’s inner circle for allowing all of it to happen. That night, she sat with her parents and Robyn while they discussed the situation. Emily felt as though she was defending her mother’s life against everyone who wanted her to end it. “You’re just doing the math,” she told Daryl. “It’s like you’re just calculating: Judging by the rate of decline of X amount, you can predict that by time Y this will be the case. But you can’t!” “O.K., so maybe not June,” Daryl said, backing off. He had spent his life avoiding conflict. “We just thought that with your mother turning 70 on June 22, that might be a good time.” “Well, that’s nuts,” Emily said. “How can you just pick a month like that?” “What month did we say, again?” Sandy asked.

Emily was angry at her father for speaking so pragmatically about <hl> her mother <hl>’s death. She was angry too at her mother for choosing a date that was so soon, and at her mother’s inner circle for allowing all of it to happen. That night, she sat with her parents and Robyn while they discussed the situation. Emily felt as though she was defending her mother’s life against everyone who wanted her to end it. “You’re just doing the math,” she told Daryl. “It’s like you’re just calculating: Judging by the rate of decline of X amount, you can predict that by time Y this will be the case. But you can’t!” “O.K., so maybe not June,” Daryl said, backing off. He had spent his life avoiding conflict. “We just thought that with your mother turning 70 on June 22, that might be a good time.” “Well, that’s nuts,” Emily said. “How can you just pick a month like that?” “What month did we say, again?” Sandy asked.

Emily was angry at her father for speaking so pragmatically about <hl> her mother <hl> ’s death.


Question: Who did Emily sit down with to discuss Sandy's situation?

Answer: her parents and Robyn

Emily was angry at her father for speaking so pragmatically about her mother’s death. She was angry too at her mother for choosing a date that was so soon, and at her mother’s inner circle for allowing all of it to happen. <hl> That night, she sat with her parents and Robyn while they discussed the situation. <hl> Emily felt as though she was defending her mother’s life against everyone who wanted her to end it. “You’re just doing the math,” she told Daryl. “It’s like you’re just calculating: Judging by the rate of decline of X amount, you can predict that by time Y this will be the case. But you can’t!” “O.K., so maybe not June,” Daryl said, backing off. He had spent his life avoiding conflict. “We just thought that with your mother turning 70 on June 22, that might be a good time.” “Well, that’s nuts,” Emily said. “How can you just pick a month like that?” “What month did we say, again?” Sandy asked.

Emily was angry at her father for speaking so pragmatically about her mother’s death. She was angry too at her mother for choosing a date that was so soon, and at her mother’s inner circle for allowing all of it to happen. That night, she sat with <hl> her parents and Robyn <hl> while they discussed the situation. Emily felt as though she was defending her mother’s life against everyone who wanted her to end it. “You’re just doing the math,” she told Daryl. “It’s like you’re just calculating: Judging by the rate of decline of X amount, you can predict that by time Y this will be the case. But you can’t!” “O.K., so maybe not June,” Daryl said, backing off. He had spent his life avoiding conflict. “We just thought that with your mother turning 70 on June 22, that might be a good time.” “Well, that’s nuts,” Emily said. “How can you just pick a month like that?” “What month did we say, again?” Sandy asked.


Question: When was Sandy's birthday?

Answer: June 22

Emily was angry at her father for speaking so pragmatically about her mother’s death. She was angry too at her mother for choosing a date that was so soon, and at her mother’s inner circle for allowing all of it to happen. That night, she sat with her parents and Robyn while they discussed the situation. Emily felt as though she was defending her mother’s life against everyone who wanted her to end it. “You’re just doing the math,” she told Daryl. “It’s like you’re just calculating: Judging by the rate of decline of X amount, you can predict that by time Y this will be the case. But you can’t!” “O.K., so maybe not June,” Daryl said, backing off. He had spent his life avoiding conflict. <hl> “We just thought that with your mother turning 70 on June 22 , that might be a good time.” <hl> “Well, that’s nuts,” Emily said. “How can you just pick a month like that?” “What month did we say, again?” Sandy asked.

Emily was angry at her father for speaking so pragmatically about her mother’s death. She was angry too at her mother for choosing a date that was so soon, and at her mother’s inner circle for allowing all of it to happen. That night, she sat with her parents and Robyn while they discussed the situation. Emily felt as though she was defending her mother’s life against everyone who wanted her to end it. “You’re just doing the math,” she told Daryl. “It’s like you’re just calculating: Judging by the rate of decline of X amount, you can predict that by time Y this will be the case. But you can’t!” “O.K., so maybe not June,” Daryl said, backing off. He had spent his life avoiding conflict. “We just thought that with your mother turning 70 on <hl> June 22 <hl>, that might be a good time.” “Well, that’s nuts,” Emily said. “How can you just pick a month like that?” “What month did we say, again?” Sandy asked.

“We just thought that with your mother turning 70 on <hl> June 22 <hl> , that might be a good time.”


Question: Who did not like conflict?

Answer: Daryl

Emily was angry at her father for speaking so pragmatically about her mother’s death. She was angry too at her mother for choosing a date that was so soon, and at her mother’s inner circle for allowing all of it to happen. That night, she sat with her parents and Robyn while they discussed the situation. Emily felt as though she was defending her mother’s life against everyone who wanted her to end it. <hl> “You’re just doing the math,” she told Daryl . <hl> “It’s like you’re just calculating: Judging by the rate of decline of X amount, you can predict that by time Y this will be the case. But you can’t!” “O.K., so maybe not June,” Daryl said, backing off. He had spent his life avoiding conflict. “We just thought that with your mother turning 70 on June 22, that might be a good time.” “Well, that’s nuts,” Emily said. “How can you just pick a month like that?” “What month did we say, again?” Sandy asked.

Emily was angry at her father for speaking so pragmatically about her mother’s death. She was angry too at her mother for choosing a date that was so soon, and at her mother’s inner circle for allowing all of it to happen. That night, she sat with her parents and Robyn while they discussed the situation. Emily felt as though she was defending her mother’s life against everyone who wanted her to end it. “You’re just doing the math,” she told <hl> Daryl <hl>. “It’s like you’re just calculating: Judging by the rate of decline of X amount, you can predict that by time Y this will be the case. But you can’t!” “O.K., so maybe not June,” Daryl said, backing off. He had spent his life avoiding conflict. “We just thought that with your mother turning 70 on June 22, that might be a good time.” “Well, that’s nuts,” Emily said. “How can you just pick a month like that?” “What month did we say, again?” Sandy asked.

“You’re just doing the math,” she told <hl> Daryl <hl> .


Question: Besides Daryl, who took the stand against AT&T?

And just the other day, Robyn went on, Emily had been chatting in the kitchen with her mother and Bev. After Emily walked out, Sandy turned to Bev and asked, “Who is that person’s mother?” “You are,” Bev said, trying not to cry. “I thought so,” Sandy said. ”I thought it might be me.” Emily now understood that Sandy was deteriorating rapidly. Karen organized a small gathering on Sunday, May 18, to celebrate Sandy’s life. It was very intimate, just Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn. (Jeremy had moved out West and still wasn’t in contact with his family, though Sandy and Daryl left a voice mail message to let him know when Sandy would die.) At the gathering, Daryl talked about a lawsuit that the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission filed in 1972 against AT&T for sex discrimination in its recruitment practices, in which he and Sandy took the stand together to testify as a team.

Answer: Sandy

And just the other day, Robyn went on, Emily had been chatting in the kitchen with her mother and Bev. <hl> After Emily walked out, Sandy turned to Bev and asked, “Who is that person’s mother?” <hl> “You are,” Bev said, trying not to cry. “I thought so,” Sandy said. ” I thought it might be me.” Emily now understood that Sandy was deteriorating rapidly. Karen organized a small gathering on Sunday, May 18, to celebrate Sandy’s life. It was very intimate, just Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn. (Jeremy had moved out West and still wasn’t in contact with his family, though Sandy and Daryl left a voice mail message to let him know when Sandy would die.) At the gathering, Daryl talked about a lawsuit that the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission filed in 1972 against AT&T for sex discrimination in its recruitment practices, in which he and Sandy took the stand together to testify as a team.

And just the other day, Robyn went on, Emily had been chatting in the kitchen with her mother and Bev. After Emily walked out, <hl> Sandy <hl> turned to Bev and asked, “Who is that person’s mother?” “You are,” Bev said, trying not to cry. “I thought so,” Sandy said. ”I thought it might be me.” Emily now understood that Sandy was deteriorating rapidly. Karen organized a small gathering on Sunday, May 18, to celebrate Sandy’s life. It was very intimate, just Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn. (Jeremy had moved out West and still wasn’t in contact with his family, though Sandy and Daryl left a voice mail message to let him know when Sandy would die.) At the gathering, Daryl talked about a lawsuit that the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission filed in 1972 against AT&T for sex discrimination in its recruitment practices, in which he and Sandy took the stand together to testify as a team.


Question: When was Sandy's life celebrated?

Answer: May 18

And just the other day, Robyn went on, Emily had been chatting in the kitchen with her mother and Bev. After Emily walked out, Sandy turned to Bev and asked, “Who is that person’s mother?” “You are,” Bev said, trying not to cry. “I thought so,” Sandy said. ” I thought it might be me.” Emily now understood that Sandy was deteriorating rapidly. <hl> Karen organized a small gathering on Sunday, May 18 , to celebrate Sandy’s life. <hl> It was very intimate, just Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn. (Jeremy had moved out West and still wasn’t in contact with his family, though Sandy and Daryl left a voice mail message to let him know when Sandy would die.) At the gathering, Daryl talked about a lawsuit that the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission filed in 1972 against AT&T for sex discrimination in its recruitment practices, in which he and Sandy took the stand together to testify as a team.

And just the other day, Robyn went on, Emily had been chatting in the kitchen with her mother and Bev. After Emily walked out, Sandy turned to Bev and asked, “Who is that person’s mother?” “You are,” Bev said, trying not to cry. “I thought so,” Sandy said. ”I thought it might be me.” Emily now understood that Sandy was deteriorating rapidly. Karen organized a small gathering on Sunday, <hl> May 18 <hl>, to celebrate Sandy’s life. It was very intimate, just Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn. (Jeremy had moved out West and still wasn’t in contact with his family, though Sandy and Daryl left a voice mail message to let him know when Sandy would die.) At the gathering, Daryl talked about a lawsuit that the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission filed in 1972 against AT&T for sex discrimination in its recruitment practices, in which he and Sandy took the stand together to testify as a team.

Karen organized a small gathering on Sunday, <hl> May 18 <hl> , to celebrate Sandy’s life.


Question: Who joined to celebrate Sandy's life?

Answer: Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn

And just the other day, Robyn went on, Emily had been chatting in the kitchen with her mother and Bev. After Emily walked out, Sandy turned to Bev and asked, “Who is that person’s mother?” “You are,” Bev said, trying not to cry. “I thought so,” Sandy said. ” I thought it might be me.” Emily now understood that Sandy was deteriorating rapidly. Karen organized a small gathering on Sunday, May 18, to celebrate Sandy’s life. <hl> It was very intimate, just Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn . <hl> (Jeremy had moved out West and still wasn’t in contact with his family, though Sandy and Daryl left a voice mail message to let him know when Sandy would die.) At the gathering, Daryl talked about a lawsuit that the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission filed in 1972 against AT&T for sex discrimination in its recruitment practices, in which he and Sandy took the stand together to testify as a team.

And just the other day, Robyn went on, Emily had been chatting in the kitchen with her mother and Bev. After Emily walked out, Sandy turned to Bev and asked, “Who is that person’s mother?” “You are,” Bev said, trying not to cry. “I thought so,” Sandy said. ”I thought it might be me.” Emily now understood that Sandy was deteriorating rapidly. Karen organized a small gathering on Sunday, May 18, to celebrate Sandy’s life. It was very intimate, just <hl> Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn <hl>. (Jeremy had moved out West and still wasn’t in contact with his family, though Sandy and Daryl left a voice mail message to let him know when Sandy would die.) At the gathering, Daryl talked about a lawsuit that the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission filed in 1972 against AT&T for sex discrimination in its recruitment practices, in which he and Sandy took the stand together to testify as a team.

It was very intimate, just <hl> Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn <hl> .


Question: Who filed a suit against AT&T?

Answer: Equal Employment Opportunity Commission

And just the other day, Robyn went on, Emily had been chatting in the kitchen with her mother and Bev. After Emily walked out, Sandy turned to Bev and asked, “Who is that person’s mother?” “You are,” Bev said, trying not to cry. “I thought so,” Sandy said. ” I thought it might be me.” Emily now understood that Sandy was deteriorating rapidly. Karen organized a small gathering on Sunday, May 18, to celebrate Sandy’s life. It was very intimate, just Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn. (Jeremy had moved out West and still wasn’t in contact with his family, though Sandy and Daryl left a voice mail message to let him know when Sandy would die.) <hl> At the gathering, Daryl talked about a lawsuit that the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission filed in 1972 against AT&T for sex discrimination in its recruitment practices, in which he and Sandy took the stand together to testify as a team. <hl>

And just the other day, Robyn went on, Emily had been chatting in the kitchen with her mother and Bev. After Emily walked out, Sandy turned to Bev and asked, “Who is that person’s mother?” “You are,” Bev said, trying not to cry. “I thought so,” Sandy said. ”I thought it might be me.” Emily now understood that Sandy was deteriorating rapidly. Karen organized a small gathering on Sunday, May 18, to celebrate Sandy’s life. It was very intimate, just Sandy, Daryl, Emily, Karen, Bev and Robyn. (Jeremy had moved out West and still wasn’t in contact with his family, though Sandy and Daryl left a voice mail message to let him know when Sandy would die.) At the gathering, Daryl talked about a lawsuit that the <hl> Equal Employment Opportunity Commission <hl> filed in 1972 against AT&T for sex discrimination in its recruitment practices, in which he and Sandy took the stand together to testify as a team.