Chapter 69 — Alzheimer's Disease
After an enjoyable weekend, life and work still had to go on.
On Monday, Ethan had an appointment with old James Whitmore at the Rayne Clinic for an Alzheimer's evaluation.
Before the meeting, Ethan had looked up the billionaire's background.
As expected—absurdly rich. The kind of rich that defied reason.
James Whitmore.
Founder and chairman of the Whitmore Hotel Group, whose business spanned luxury hotels and resort industries across the world. One of the top one hundred wealthiest people in New York, with a personal net worth estimated between 3.8 and 4.5 billion dollars.
Now sixty-nine years old, he had started from a run-down hotel he bought in Midtown Manhattan and spent over thirty years expanding it into an international hotel empire spanning three continents.
The luxury hotel Ethan and Missy had stayed in last Saturday was one of Whitmore's properties.
Out of curiosity, Ethan had looked up the price of the penthouse suite they had stayed in.
$23,000 a night.
"Poverty really limits the imagination…" he muttered. Suddenly it made perfect sense why that night had felt so wonderful.
Whitmore's wife had passed away years ago.
His only child was the groom Ethan had met briefly at the wedding—Mark Whitmore.
"A global hotel empire, dozens of properties around the world, assets worth hundreds of billions…
…and only one son?
That doesn't seem very scientific. It's not like there's a one-child policy here."
Ethan remembered the heir clearly.
The slight arrogance. The slicked-back, gleaming hair. The uncontrollable instinct to chase after any beautiful woman he saw—it was all written plainly across his face.
"If the heir were exceptionally talented, that would be one thing.
Even if he were just an ordinary person—as long as he worked hard and had a sense of responsibility, that would still be acceptable.
But unfortunately, I didn't see any particularly useful qualities in him.
He did, however, appear very experienced in changing outfits, attending parties, and flirting with other women right in front of his bride."
Of course, the rich young master wasn't entirely hopeless.
Judging from the pride he showed when talking about the family business and the enthusiasm he had for future expansion plans, he clearly possessed ambition and intended to make a big splash once he took control.
"A spendthrift with ambition…"
Ethan found himself worrying about old James.
Compared with curing his Alzheimer's, Ethan felt that perhaps a more reliable plan would be—
While James still had energy, perhaps with the guidance of the Holy Light he could try having a few more sons in the coming years.
Ethan quietly filed that idea under Plan B.
---
The Medical Reality
Returning to reality and professional thinking, Ethan understood Alzheimer's disease very well.
It was a classic neurodegenerative disorder.
Memory loss. Declining judgment. Personality changes.
At its core, the problem was the progressive degeneration, damage, and death of large numbers of neurons.
Neurodegenerative meant that once neurons died, they could not regenerate.
Lost neural tissue didn't "sleep."
It disappeared.
"The Holy Light can revive dying cells," Ethan thought,
"but it can't restore tissue that has already been consumed."
This was different from conditions like cerebral palsy.
Cerebral palsy involved clear physical damage—damage the Holy Light could repair by rebuilding connections.
But Alzheimer's was different.
It was systemic collapse.
Cells dying continuously. Neural connections breaking apart.
At best, the Holy Light might enhance the activity of remaining neurons and slow the degeneration.
But it could not simply create new neurons out of thin air.
And even if new neurons could be created, they would not carry the original memories, personality, or thought patterns.
That wouldn't be restoration.
It would be replacement.
In other words—
If Alzheimer's could truly be cured completely, then immortality might not be far behind.
Ethan shook his head, pushing the tangled thoughts away.
"Forget it.
Thinking only creates problems.
Doing creates answers.
When old James arrives, I'll try it firsthand."
---
Monday Morning
At exactly ten o'clock on Monday morning, the glass door of the Rayne Clinic opened gently.
Standing at the entrance was an elderly man with neatly combed hair and a calm, composed demeanor.
His dark suit was perfectly tailored, and he carried a heavy leather briefcase.
No assistant.
No entourage.
No son.
"Good morning, Dr. Rayne."
James Whitmore spoke warmly and calmly, looking nothing like a patient.
Ethan stepped forward to greet him.
"Welcome to the Rayne Clinic. I thought you might come in the afternoon."
Then he added,
"You came alone?"
James smiled faintly.
"I left everyone outside. I came in by myself."
After a brief pause, he added calmly:
"After all… I'm the one who's sick."
He sat down in the waiting chair without much small talk and pushed the leather briefcase across the table toward Ethan.
"These are my medical records from the past period," he said.
"Physical examinations, neurological evaluations, cognitive test results—and records from some experimental medications."
"That's even more complete than I expected," Ethan said as he accepted the folder.
With documentation this thorough, it could have been sent straight to a specialist consultation without any issues.
Ethan flipped through several pages, quickly grasping the overall situation.
Fragments of memory beginning to break apart.
Reduced ability to retain new information.
Weakening sense of direction and time.
Occasional pauses while organizing language.
Slower emotional responses.
MRI scans showing shrinkage in certain brain regions.
Cognitive test scores gradually declining.
Classic signs of early-stage Alzheimer's disease.
"I'm still working," James said on his own initiative.
"But when I read the board reports now, I have to go through them three times just to make sure I haven't missed anything."
Ethan stopped turning the pages and looked up at him.
For a doctor, that description was more telling than any medical report.
"To be honest," James continued calmly,
"I've already begun trying to accept this illness."
"I've fallen into enough deep pits in my life to know which roads are survivable and which ones lead straight to ruin."
"So I won't place my bets on something with no chance of winning."
Ethan asked quietly,
"Then why did you still choose to come today?"
"Because I want to know whether there might be… a miracle."
The old man slowly lifted his gaze and met Ethan's eyes.
"And I believe the odds might actually be good."
Ethan fell silent for two seconds.
Compared with cancer or AIDS, if the Holy Light could cure Alzheimer's… that would truly count as a miracle.
What made Alzheimer's terrifying was the way it destroyed a person slowly and silently—
Like watching the sunset move backward in time, except the sun would never rise again.
He took a deep breath and shifted back into doctor mode.
"Alright. Let's begin with some basic tests."
There were no advanced machines.
No high-tech scanners.
Ethan simply picked up a small portable testing notebook and a stopwatch.
"First, we'll check your short-term memory."
He spoke three words clearly:
"Key. Lavender. New York."
One minute later, he asked,
"Do you remember them?"
James closed his eyes briefly.
"Key… New York… and the third one was… violet?"
Ethan wrote down the response.
Not severe loss—but already showing confusion between similar concepts.
Next came spatial orientation tests, finger-follow tracking, and delayed reaction assessments.
The results weren't terrible.
But the trend was clear—moving steadily away from normal baseline values.
Ethan recorded all the data into the medical file while thinking carefully.
The clinic was so quiet that even the ticking wall clock sounded unusually loud.
Finally, Ethan put the documents down and looked up.
"Mr. Whitmore, before we begin treatment, I need to ask one question. Everyone who comes here seeking a 'miracle' has to answer it."
James nodded calmly.
"Please go ahead."
"How did you learn that this place might offer one?"
The old man replied lightly,
"My group has many cooperative projects with the government."
— Government client +1.
Ethan smiled faintly.
"…I see."