Bob was in a padded chair with a sloped back so he could slump without falling out. The legs of his gray sweatpants rode up almost to his knee, revealing his thin, pale shins. He made singsongy sounds that an administrator explained as singing and preaching. It helped other patients and families accept his outbursts. He wore thick glasses. Joanna didn't know whether he could see or whether he even knew she was there.

He had trouble swallowing, so he was fed ground or mashed food. Joanna gave him milk, rubbing his shoulder as she held a baby's sippy cup to his lips. Unable to cough properly, he cleared his throat with a loud, staccato laugh - "Ah hah hah hah" - that fell like a roller-coaster.

While waiting for his bean soup to arrive, Joanna looked at him intently. "Hi, sweetie," she said, tenderly brushing his wavy hair back from his forehead. On some days, she thought he responded to her touch. She'd whisper "I love you" in his ear, and he'd babble a response. Maybe some part of him still knew her. On this day, he sometimes looked right at her, but there was no hint of understanding.

He still loved to eat, and it was keeping him alive. Once a big man - 5-foot-10 and 200 pounds - he had dropped to 130 at one point. Now, he was back up to 156. His health had improved so much that hospice was no longer appropriate.

"When I start blithering, I want you to shoot me," he had told Joanna after he got sick.

He was blithering now, but she couldn't follow his orders. Well-aware of the irony, she spooned the soup, a big helping of pureed chicken and noodles, mashed carrots, a roll, sugar cookies softened in milk, and ice cream into his gaping mouth.

When the food was gone, she wheeled him back to his room. She lowered the back of the chair until it was almost flat and gently removed his glasses. Not knowing whether it mattered, she turned on a classical music tape. In no time, he was asleep.

A last touch

Last fall, Bob Moore's trouble with swallowing worsened. He got pneumonia, probably because improperly swallowed food lodged in his lungs. Told that he would die within days, Joanna called their children home.

On the morning of Nov. 30, the sons - Tom, Andy and John, a double-bass player who'd left a tour with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra - sat uncomfortably around their father's bedside, reminiscing and staring at the pale, open-mouthed man whose chest rose and fell beside them.

"Feel free to touch him," Joanna told her sons. "I got a lot of comfort last night out of sitting here and just touching him." His warmth had soothed her.

"You just realize there's such a big break between life and death," she said.

That night, the daughters arrived - Kathy Thomas, the physical therapist from Pittsburgh; Betsy from Hyde Park, N.Y.; and Alison, of Wilmington. They cried, surprised that their father's imminent death freed them to remember the man they had loved.

He breathed quietly in bed as his children's voices swirled around him.

The six of them and a grandson held hands with Joanna as they circled the bed to pray. "I am thankful for this unbroken chain of family," Joanna said.

Bob Moore died before the sun rose. His wife and children were relieved.

A diagnosis

On the afternoon of Feb. 8, Forman opened the first of five folders containing 60 slides of Bob Moore's brain.

Each of the slides held a fragile slice of brain tissue treated with antibodies and chemicals to bring out, with color or light, the protein landmarks of dementia.

As always, Forman started with the fuchsia slides, the standard stain for seeing cell structure.