I know visiting John is going to be tough. That he's in rough shape. John is the guy in this picture. I know he's not going to look like this anymore.

People with Alzheimer's respond to music. A friend told me that. On the ride from Newburyport to central Mass. to see John, Stu makes a playlist. He's taking requests and we load it with classic rock. We're just guessing, throwing darts. We throw in some goofball songs, too, like "Safety Dance," by Men Without Hats.

John lives at Moe's house now. Moe is his sister-in-law. She's all heart and very smart and she cheers us into her living room. John is sitting there in a wheelchair. He can no longer move or speak.

We are so right to bring music.

Thirty minutes into our visit, John, who has early-onset Alzheimer's, is responding to a song by Boston.

He raises his arm. It’s stiff, but what matters is he's raising his arm. And he's not done. He's raising his leg now, too. Stiff also, but who cares. Because look at his eyes. That’s what grabs my throat. His eyes are growing.

"Hitch a Ride," by Boston is scratching an itch. It’s making John try, it's like he's peering over the fence of his disease, squeezing his head through the last crack, to show us something. To make contact. The guitars soar and John's mouth flies open. Stu turns it up.

This is how we say goodbye. Or this is how John says goodbye to us. He didn't have to do anything, but he did, and I'm glad.

Then Stu, Greg, and I say goodbye to Moe.

In the kitchen, with Moe, we’re talking about how John loved a party. We're laughing about that, about a life run on high octane. I'm remembering the guy who loved to mountain bike, loved gear and fancy wine and good food, and those chocolate chip cookies they make at Joppa Fine Foods in Newburyport. He adored his son. He loved to watch his son play basketball and football.

That's the way to do it. You remember how they lived.

And this is how Moe lives. She has too much to do already, but she takes care of her brother-in-law. I love the people who decide they're going to be there for others. I love Moe even more when I find out she's not going to let John die alone.

After we leave, John lives just five more days.

I'm back in Newburyport when I get the text from Moe. I'm thinking about how she has already lost her husband, Jeff – John’s brother – to this same disease. I'm thinking John never asked for this. It was no way for John to live.

It's early still, like 7 a.m. I go upstairs to tell Amy. That Moe sat up all night with John. That he died at 2:26 a.m.

I sit on the edge of the bed and look up the lyrics to “Hitch a Ride.” They’re gloomy and death-obsessed. They're not what got to John. What got to John was the music. I play the song on my phone. It gets under your skin, if you let it, the guitars, the whole 70s arena-rock she-bang. There’s power in it, emotion, and that’s what John was feeling when he let us know he was still there. I play the song a couple times, so Amy and I can feel it, too.

Rest in Peace, John. You were loved.

Want to get the newsletters directly to your inbox?