A Different Perspective on Alzheimer’s Disease
Imagine you live in a house. A large, busy house with a voice speaking in every room. One room tells you who you are, another warns you about what could go wrong, a third repeats what happened yesterday, and a fourth worries about tomorrow. The house is never quiet, but you have lived there so long that you no longer recognise the voices as voices. You think that is simply how the house sounds, and so you believe that silence means something is wrong.
But beneath that house, in the foundation, there is a room that has always been there. A room without voices, without commentary. A room of light, warmth and stillness. It was your first room, long before the other rooms were built. It was your first room, still in its original state, but you have no conscious memory of it, because conscious memory did not yet exist.
Alzheimer’s disease dismantles the house, room by room. The voices fall silent, one by one. First the complex ones: planning, analysing, abstract reasoning. Then the everyday ones: names, faces, words. And eventually the simplest ones: how you walk, how you do things, how you eat, and even how you swallow.
Everyone watching sees destruction — a house collapsing and a person disappearing.
But what if that is not the whole story?
What if the person is not disappearing, but returning?
Science calls it retrogenesis: the process by which Alzheimer’s disease reverses human development in reverse order. The skills that were learned last disappear first. The brain regions that matured last are affected first. The pattern is so precise that researchers can map the stages of Alzheimer’s one-to-one onto the developmental stages of a child.
What does that mean? It means that at the end of this process, when all the rooms that were built later have fallen away, the very first room remains. The room of the foundation. The room where you were before you had a name, before you had a story, before you knew you were an “I.”
The consciousness of a newborn.
Not empty, not nothing — but full, in a way most of us have forgotten. A baby experiences the world with an intensity that most adults never reach again. Every touch is an event and every sound is new. Every experience encompasses everything, without judgement, without comparison, without fear of tomorrow. Pure, unmediated experience.
That is natural human consciousness. It was there before language came. Before the story came. Before the left hemisphere took over and built a construct we came to call “the self.”
There is something science has discovered but cannot fully explain.
Alzheimer’s patients are often happier than expected. Family members report that their loved ones in mild to moderate stages display more positive emotions than before. Researchers found that patients experience elevated levels of joy that persist long after the memory of what caused that joy has completely vanished. The less they remembered, the longer the feeling of happiness remained.
Science calls this a paradox.
It is not a paradox. It is exactly what you would expect if you understand what is really happening.
The system that produces unease falls away: the inner critic falls silent, the comparison with others stops. The fear of the future disappears, because the system that simulated the future is no longer running. Regret over the past dissolves, because the system that endlessly rehearsed the past has been switched off.
What remains is not nothing. What remains is what was always there, beneath all the layers of commentary and construction: a quiet, fundamental state of presence. Not euphoric. Not dramatic. Simply being there. Feeling, being present in the moment without anything or anyone disturbing that moment with a story about it.
Happiness not as an achievement. Happiness as what remains when you stop blocking it.
But there is also fear, and that must not go unmentioned. Especially in the early stage, when awareness of one’s own decline is still intact, many patients experience profound distress. They notice words slipping away, names escaping them, the world offering less grip — and the anxiety this creates is real and can be deeply intense for everyone involved.
But that fear is entirely explainable, because it is the fear of someone who knows they are losing something. It is self-reflection, future projection — the ability to imagine what is coming and to be afraid of it. It is, in other words, the system of the upper rooms observing its own demolition. It is not the first room that suffers; it is the rooms above it that feel themselves collapsing.
As those rooms fall away, that particular fear disappears too. What sometimes remains in later stages is unease of a different order. It is not the existential dread of someone losing themselves, but the distress of a child in an unfamiliar environment: too many stimuli, an unfamiliar face, a routine that has been broken. No story about what is wrong — just a direct, sensory reaction.
And that unease is often made worse by exactly what well-meaning people do: approaching the patient through the system that is disappearing. “Do you remember who I am?” “You’re in the nursing home, remember?” For someone whose language system is already crumbling, those are not comforting words. They are confrontations with loss. The distress we see is not proof that the patient is suffering at their deepest core. It is proof that we are approaching them through the wrong room.
This changes everything about how we can look at dementia.
The family sitting at the bedside saying, “He doesn’t recognise me anymore,” is only partly right. The recognition through names and faces, through the story of who this person is in your life — that may be gone. But that was the system of the left hemisphere, of language and category.
But there is another recognition, older, deeper — recognition through warmth, scent, the timbre of a voice, even the energy of a presence. Just as a baby recognises its mother long before it knows her name. This does not travel through words, but through the body, through feeling, through something that needs no name.
The Alzheimer’s patient who no longer responds to your name may still respond to your hand, your voice, or the simple fact that you are there. Not because some residual piece of cognition happens to still be working, but because the system through which you perceive this — the right-hemispheric, sensory, direct consciousness — is the oldest system. The foundational system: the first to arrive, the last to leave.
What would change if we understood this?
We would stop trying to pull the patient back into our world — the world of words, names, dates and logic. We would instead go to them, into their world: a world of touch, music, presence, rhythm, warmth.
We would see incontinence not as humiliation but as a logical consequence of the return to an earlier developmental level, where life once began — and we would calmly adapt care accordingly, just as we do with a baby, without shame.
We would adapt nutrition to the level at which the patient finds themselves — not waiting until there is a crisis, but proactively transitioning to softer, liquid foods as swallowing becomes more difficult. Much like gradually introducing a child to solid food, but in reverse order.
We would use music not as entertainment but as communication. Music is processed by areas deep in the brain that Alzheimer’s affects last. A patient who no longer speaks a word can sometimes still sing along to a song from their youth. That is not a scrap of remaining memory — it is proof that someone is still home, just in a different room.
We would see presence not as helplessly looking on, but as the most powerful intervention there is. A calm, warm, unhurried presence is exactly what right-hemispheric consciousness needs. It is the same presence a baby needs: not words or explanations, just being there — perceptibly, reliably, warmly.
And perhaps most importantly of all: we could take some of the sharp edge off the fear of dementia.
Not by denying that it is a serious illness. Not by trivialising the devastation it wreaks on lives and families. But by recognising that the story does not end in nothingness. That beneath the loss there is something that is not lost. That the person you love does not vanish into a void, but returns to something that was always there. Something older than language, older than the story, older than the self we cling to so desperately.
Natural human consciousness.
Still — present — whole — at peace.
This perspective is not intended as a substitute for medical research or professional care. It is intended as a supplement — a different lens through which we can look at what happens when Alzheimer’s disease changes someone’s life. A lens that sees not only loss, but also return. Not only destruction, but also revelation.
For perhaps the most profound thing Alzheimer’s teaches us is not something about disease. Perhaps it is something about consciousness itself: that it was there before we were, and that it will still be there when everything we added to it has fallen away.
Mart Wijn — April 2026
