God gave us memory
so that we might have roses in
December.
J. M. Barrie (1860–1937)
Alzheimer’s Dementia is an
insidious disease destined to affect as many as ten percent of our maturing population.
For most of us, its social, emotional, and financial impact on family members
is all too familiar. What we don’t
know, and may never know, is what transpires in the minds of those afflicted. Below is a short story from the viewpoint
of an Alzheimer’s patient. It is a work
of fiction and represents one person’s depiction of the disease.
Frozen Memories
By Larry Buege
“It’s a beautiful day. Too nice for you to be cooped up inside.”
A middle-aged woman pushes
me through the nursing home door toward a well-manicured lawn. I don’t know her name, but she is nice. The sun is bright and I welcome the radiant
heat—my room had been cold. She pushes
the wheelchair along the sidewalk and then onto the newly mowed grass. The smell reminds me of the fresh-cut
alfalfa of my youth.
“You’re having a visitor
today. Alice is coming to see you. You remember her, don’t you?”
I always enjoy visitors, as
it breaks the monotony of my day. TV
bores me, and I can no longer play games or socially interact with other
residents. The kind lady pushes me up to the end of an empty picnic table in a
sunny portion of the yard. The table is
made of wood and has been recently varnished.
A few bird droppings decorate the surface.
“She’ll be here about lunch
time, so I’ll bring your lunch out here.
You and Alice can have a picnic.
Won’t that be fun?”
I don’t understand what she
is saying and offer no reply. The lady
does not appear offended. She leaves me in my wheelchair and walks back inside
leaving me alone with my thoughts, but I don’t mind. I don’t often get outside.
It’s a rare pleasure. To my left, I hear a chickadee scolding me for
invading its space. It darts from
branch to branch in the tall blue spruce announcing to the world its
displeasure. On the lawn in front of
me, I see robins hopping around. They
pause periodically to pull a reluctant worm from the thick sod. Watching them
is simple entertainment, but I still find it enjoyable.
The kind lady returns. With her is a younger woman. I judge her to be in her thirties. She is dressed in a gray business suit, and
I wonder if she is my doctor.
“Alice is here to visit with
you,” the kind lady says.
The young lady takes my
right hand in both of hers and sits down at the picnic table. Her hands are soft and gentle and
affectionately caress the back of my hand.
She gives me a pleasant smile.
“How are you today?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “What’s your name?”
“My name’s Alice. I came to spend the afternoon with you.”
She lets go of my hand long enough
to retrieve a comb from her purse and run it gently through my gray hair. She’s a nice lady. She places the comb back in her purse.
“Do you want a mint?” she
asks. She finds a roll of mints in her
purse and places one in her mouth. I
open my mouth in anticipation. She
takes another mint and places it in my mouth.
“Thank you,” I say.
She sets the roll of mints
on the picnic table and again takes my hand in her hands. It feels good. They are so soft and smooth.
I look down at my hands. They
are rough and wrinkled with age, hardly worthy of her attention.
“What’s your name?”
“My name’s Alice.”
She smiles at me. I wish she would come more often. I don’t get many visitors. She’s a very pretty lady.
“Do you live around here?” I
ask.
“I live in Wexford. It’s about one hundred and twenty miles
south of here. I wish I lived
closer. Then I could come more often.”
“I’ve never heard of
Wexford.” She has dark brown eyes that twinkle, and when she smiles, her
whole face smiles with her. “Do you come here often?”
“I was here last week.”
“I wish you would have
stopped to see me.”
“Do you remember Tommy? He’s on a Little League team now. He says to tell you hello. I have a picture of him.”
The young lady retrieves a
snapshot from her purse and gives it to me.
The picture shows a small boy with a bat at his shoulder smiling at the
camera. His smile reminds me of the
kind lady. I don’t know the boy but nod
anyway so as to not hurt the lady’s feelings. He’s a nice looking boy.
“Except for the dark hair, I
think he looks a lot like his grandfather.”
The lady places the picture back in her purse. “I want you to have the picture.
I’ll pin it on your bulletin board when we return to your room.”
The middle-aged lady from
the nursing home returns with two trays of food. She places one tray in front of me and gives the other to my
young lady friend. “Have you two been
having fun?” she asks.
“We’re having a good conversation,” my lady friend replies. “I showed him a picture of Tommy, and I think
he recognized him.”
“You need to eat before
everything gets cold,” the middle-aged lady says. “Today we have roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy. Mashed potatoes and gravy is his favorite.”
I look at the mashed
potatoes and gravy and my mouth begins to water. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I take a spoon and scoop up some potatoes. My hand trembles and I miss my mouth. The gravy and potatoes drip down from my
cheek and onto my shirt. Taking a
napkin from my tray, the lady wipes my mouth and face. Then she gently pries the spoon from my
hand. “Let me help,” she says.
She takes a little potato in the spoon and lifts it to my mouth. I open my mouth and remove the potatoes from the spoon with my tongue and upper lip. The gravy has good flavor. I like mashed potatoes and gravy. She continues to feed me until the food is gone, ignoring her tray. She is very helpful.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“My name’s Alice,” the young
woman replies. She again wipes my face
with a napkin. “Do you want to go for a
walk?” I nod my head in the
affirmative.
The young lady takes the
rolls from the two trays, placing them in her pocket. Then she releases the brakes on the wheelchair and pushes me back
to the sidewalk. “We can walk over by
the pond and feed the ducks.”
The duck pond is at the edge
of the nursing home property. In
reality it is only a small stream that has been artificially dammed up to form
a half-acre pond. The ducks don’t seem
to care. About ten ducks are floating
on the pond while another five or six are sitting on the grass at the edge of
the pond. The young lady pushes my
wheelchair close to the water’s edge where a park bench overlooks the
pond. She sits down beside me on the
bench.
“Do you remember how to feed
the ducks?” she asks. She breaks apart
one of the rolls and hands a fragment to me.
The ducks seem to understand and immediately gather at my feet. There’s a mother duck with eight small
ducklings. The young ducklings scamper
around in what appears to be random motion but do not stray far from the mother
duck.
“Throw them the bread,” my
lady friend tells me. I throw the piece
of bread, and it falls not far from my feet.
The ducks converge upon it in a flurry of feathers. She gives me another piece of bread. The ducks are now quacking noisily in
anticipation. I throw out the bread,
and they again fight over the small morsel.
I feel sad that the young ducklings don’t get any of the bread. The third piece I throw directly to them,
and one of the ducklings grabs the bread and runs with the other ducklings in
hot pursuit. It makes me smile. I can’t remember when I had such fun.
The young woman is laughing
at me or maybe the ducklings. I’m not sure which. I like laughter. I’m glad
she came to visit.
“You’re a nice lady,” I tell
her. “If I ever have a daughter, I hope
she’s just like you.”
The young woman smiles, but it is a forced
smile. It lacks the energy of her
previous smiles that had made her entire face glow. Her dark brown eyes—the ones I had found so filled with
joy—slowly well up with water until a solitary tear cascades over her left
check. She makes no attempt to wipe it
away.
“Why are you crying?” I ask.
A Humorous Look at
Throat Cancer, the author’s cancer journey
Silent Night, Thoughts of
a soldier
I Have Been To The Wall, a poem
in tribute to fallen soldiers.
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