The first time I read Pema Chodron’s book, When things Fall Apart, my father was ill. Overnight, Dad had lost decades of his long-term and short-term memory because of an inflammation in the brain that couldn’t be explained.

He still remembered the people he loved, just not where we all lived. He could still dress himself, but he didn’t recognize the clothes in his closet. He still had a sense of humor, it was just that he would make the same jokes over and over and over.

He was determined to “get this memory thing sorted out,” despite the less optimistic prognosis.